“I’m a schoolteacher. I teach English composition in this little town called Addley, Pennsylvania,” he says quietly, defusing a conflict that threatened to splinter his unit.

It’s a pivotal moment — less than two minutes of screen time — but it operates as a strategic move in a chess game. Measured. Human. Calculated. And entirely genius.

Though not an actual game of chess, this scene has often been called the “chess scene” because it reframes the characters, mission and ethics of war.

Captain Miller’s revelation is a sacrifice of control in exchange for unity, giving a piece of himself to keep the rest of the board intact.

The squad had been unraveling. After the death of medic Wade, the men capture a German soldier responsible. Some, like Private Reiben, want him executed. Others argue for due process. The standoff nearly comes to blows before Miller’s confession restores order. It’s not an order that stops them — it’s empathy. In that moment, Miller ceases to be just “sir.”

Director Steven Spielberg’s commitment to realism shaped how Captain Miller’s character was revealed throughout the film.

“I wanted people to feel the claustrophobia of that environment and the tension and the anxiety and the bravery,” Spielberg told the Los Angeles Times in 2018. “I didn’t want the camera to be a third party.”

By keeping the audience embedded with the soldiers rather than offering detached exposition, Spielberg made Miller’s eventual revelation about his past even more impactful. The information wasn’t handed to the audience; it was earned through shared experience.

This deep respect for ordinary soldiers’ experiences fueled Spielberg’s decision to portray Captain Miller not as a larger-than-life hero, but as an ordinary man thrust into extraordinary circumstances.

In an interview with Roger Ebert, Tom Hanks reflected on the tension between Miller’s civilian identity and his wartime role.

“The reality is that only 10 percent of the guys who went ashore on D-Day were combat veterans,” Hanks told Ebert. “Miller is one of them because he’d already seen some hideous action in Italy, so he is a terrified man because he is an experienced man.”

That fear, held in check by duty, is visible in the scene. Miller isn’t just calming his men; he’s reminding himself who he is. The irony is cutting: a man trained to shape minds is now tasked with leading others to their possible deaths. The subtext of his confession is clear: “I used to build lives. Now I send them to die.”

Cinematically, it’s a pause in the action that feels almost sacred. Spielberg and cinematographer Janusz Kamiński stage the scene without dramatic camera movement. There is no swelling score — just stillness, space, and silence. It’s filmed like a dialogue at a kitchen table, not in war-torn France.

The contrast mirrors the central contradiction of the film itself — how can a war movie be about saving one man when thousands are dying? How can a teacher become a killer? These aren’t abstract questions for the audience — they’re moral burdens for the men onscreen.

When discussing his approach to portraying Captain Miller, Tom Hanks reflected on that burden.

“The first time I read about Captain John Miller, here’s what I got: He’s scared. And he’s afraid in the same way that I would be in his circumstances,” Hanks said in an interview with SlashFilm. “His fear is the reason for everything he does. And all the questions that are answered in the movie come back to that core thing.”

That fear, held in check by responsibility and duty, ultimately defines Miller’s leadership and humanity.

The metaphorical chessboard is full of pieces: Reiben’s rebelliousness, Horvath’s loyalty, Upham’s naivety. Miller is the king — slow-moving, constantly protected, but crucial to the mission. His self-disclosure is strategic, trading personal privacy to keep the team intact.

But the genius lies in its restraint. Spielberg never tells the audience how to feel. He simply gives them a moment of calm, honesty and identity. That restraint makes the scene land harder, because viewers, like soldiers, are left to wrestle with the meaning.

This idea of “civilian memory as survival” echoes through military history. Soldiers in every conflict have clung to their pre-war identities as a tether to sanity. World War II letters reference home life, family roles and jobs waiting back in towns like Addley, Pennsylvania. Miller’s confession isn’t just narrative — it’s documentary.

That grounding also speaks to the larger sacrifice. Miller’s greatest fear isn’t death. It’s going home changed beyond recognition.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ve changed so much that my wife is even going to recognize me,” he tells the men.

By the film’s end, when Miller delivers his final line— “Earn this” —it’s not just about the mission. It encompasses everything that came before: the classroom, the chess scene, the hesitation, the cost. He’s not just talking to Private Ryan. He’s talking to all of us.

In “Saving Private Ryan,” violence is constant. But the most cutting blow may be the quiet realization that these men, often depicted as heroes, are teachers, typists and tradesmen just trying to get home.

The “chess scene” is a small move in the film’s larger strategy, but its emotional impact is enormous. It doesn’t advance the mission. It reminds us why the mission matters.

Company owner Mitchell Wein’s grandfather had the good fortune of housing his watchmaking business in the same building as the Canadian Army’s procurement office as the nation entered the WWII.

It had only been a few years since the Marathon Watch founder had broken off from the family watch business to design his own product.

Those first watches went on the wrists of soldiers headed to fight in Italy. The company eventually delivered an estimated 160,000 watches during WWII, Wein said, and has remained in the military watch game nearly ever since.

“Combining military-grade durability with precise engineering, the Original Search and Rescue with Date, or OSAR-D, builds on Marathon Watch’s legacy of the original 41mm SAR, which set the standard for Search and Rescue timepieces in the early 2000s,” according to a company release.

The expanded OSAR-D family of watches maintains the enhanced features introduced last year with the launch of the 41mm OSAR-D with black dial.

Those include the improved MaraGlo illumination, larger indices and increased clarity on the cyclops date window.

The company also added the Arctic white dial, which is designed to improve legibility in bright conditions, offering unparalleled readability in extreme environments.

All the company’s timepieces are powered by Marathon x Sellita automatic movements. The SW-200 movement drives 36mm and 41mm sizes.

The 46mm jumbo edition is equipped with the new SW600 movement, which includes a 62-hour power reserve, now the largest power reserve Marathon has to date.

Each OSAR-D model is also fitted with an Incabloc shock absorber to reinforce its durability.

The 41mm size watches are available for preorder, with shipments slated for mid-May, company officials said. Prices start at $1,500 with the 3-piece rubber strap kit. The stainless steel bracelet option costs $1,800.

The 36mm and 46mm sizes will be available in late 2025, with prices ranging from $1,000 to $2,500.

The company built its general-purpose mechanical watch in 1976 for the U.S. military and started building chronometers for ships in the early 1980s, Wein said.

“We didn’t really make money on the government watches,” Wein said, adding that they would get orders of 7,000 or 11,000 watches and make between $3.50 and $5 per watch.

One of the reasons mechanical watches remain part of military inventory in an age of their smart counterparts is that mechanical timekeeping remains impervious to electromagnetic pulse tactics that could blow out any electronics in range. They also do not emit a signal that can be detected by electromagnetic warfare tools.

And then there’s the battery, or lack thereof, which adds to their long-lasting durability. The watch can operate for 30 years, as compared to a traditional quartz watch that usually requires a new battery every six years.

Special, synthetic oil blends keep the watch going. Those only need replacement every 15 years or so, Wein said. Tritium gas tubes that provide glow-in-the-dark features stay bright for 12 to 25 years.

But nowhere is that quiet intensity more brutally interrupted than during the bridge scene, a masterclass in tension, stillness and sudden chaos. What begins as a moment of eerie calm quickly erupts into a deadly confrontation, encapsulating the psychological rhythm of war: hours of waiting punctuated by seconds of terror.

In the scene, Lance Corporal William Schofield, one of two British soldiers tasked with delivering a message to halt a doomed offensive, comes upon the remnants of a canal bridge. The setting is ghostly. The sky hangs gray above charred buildings and a structure so damaged it barely clings to functionality.

There’s no gunfire, no shouting — only the ambient dread of open space in contested territory. For a brief moment, the war seems to have paused, and Schofield is simply a man trying to cross from one side of destruction to another.

The audience, lulled by the stillness, knows better.

Mendes and cinematographer Roger Deakins use the long take to draw the viewer in, walking them with Schofield across every step of the splintered planks. The moment he’s fired upon, it’s not just a character in danger — it’s the audience, too. There’s no cut to safety, no shift in perspective. The camera is trapped in the chaos with him, and what was once silence explodes into violence.

Director Sam Mendes emphasized that this immersive approach was by design.

“I wanted to travel every step with these men — to breathe every breath with them,” Mendes told Vanity Fair. “It needed to be visceral and immersive.”

The sniper duel that follows isn’t stylized or elegant. It’s sloppy, disorienting, real. Schofield takes cover, fires wildly and ultimately outmaneuvers the hidden enemy — but not before taking a near-fatal hit to the head.

He blacks out. The screen fades. The illusion of the continuous take is broken, if only briefly, symbolizing a fracture in the film’s rhythm and Schofield’s psyche. He wakes later, disoriented, alone and reborn in a more dangerous phase of his mission.

The bridge scene’s refusal to telegraph its intent makes it so impactful. In most war films, action is preceded by swelling music, a flurry of edits or dialogue that foreshadows the threat.

Not here. The gunshot doesn’t just pierce the air — it severs the film’s momentary peace. And that’s the point. War doesn’t wait for a dramatic build-up. The most lethal moments often follow the quietest.

Deakins, a veteran cinematographer and frequent collaborator with Mendes, admitted that this sequence — and the film as a whole — was one of his career’s most daunting technical challenges.

“We were very lucky,” he said in an interview. “It was the biggest challenge. I mean, that caused me the most anxiety.”

But beyond tension, the scene carries metaphorical weight.

The bridge is both literal and symbolic: a point of no return. Once crossed, Schofield’s mission enters a darker, more surreal phase. It’s the moment his journey stops being about duty and becomes more existential. He’s no longer just a messenger — he’s a lone figure clinging to purpose amid destruction. The bridge is broken, but he crosses it anyway, and that act underscores the film’s central message: perseverance in the face of chaos.

There’s also a stark commentary on vulnerability. Open ground becomes a deadly unknown in a war so often associated with trench-bound stalemates. The bridge offers no cover, no concealment — only exposure. Schofield’s survival is not the result of superior firepower or tactics, but grit and chance. He moves forward not because he’s fearless, but because he’s resigned to the idea that standing still is just as dangerous.

‘1917’ co-star discusses instant war cinema classic

George MacKay, who portrays Schofield, described the pressure of performing the film’s ambitious single-take illusion.

“It was stressful, but I felt like this one-take thing is just an actor’s dream,” MacKay told Vanity Fair. “It really does allow you to throw yourself into it.”

The bridge scene is particularly relevant when viewed through the lens of military service. Many veterans recognize the rhythm of quiet and violence that “1917″ portrays with brutal accuracy. The sudden switch from routine to survival mode mirrors real-life deployments where a seemingly routine foot patrol can turn into a firefight in seconds.

That’s why the scene resonates — it reflects the lived reality of those who know combat’s unpredictable rhythms.

It also reminds viewers of something easy to forget in stylized portrayals of war: survival often comes down to small decisions made in seconds. Ducking behind rubble, peering out at just the right angle, pulling the trigger half a second faster — these are the margins that matter, and “1917″ respects them.

Deakins’ camera doesn’t cut away because the truth of combat doesn’t. The viewer doesn’t get a breather. There’s no emotional reset. The camera holds steady as Schofield scrambles, breathes and bleeds. By keeping the audience locked in, Mendes ensures that every shot, every heartbeat, every fall feels earned.

In the broader narrative, the bridge scene is a turning point. It’s not the climax of the mission, but rather the moment when the stakes become real. It strips away any lingering notion that this is an adventure.

Schofield’s comrade is gone, but his orders remain. And now, with a concussion and dwindling resources, he must move alone through enemy territory, relying on nothing but instinct and will.

If “1917″ is a film about duty and sacrifice, the bridge scene is its violent awakening. It tells us that war doesn’t wait for clarity.

The Hard Deck, owned by Penny Benjamin (Jennifer Connelly), is a spiritual successor to the bar where Maverick and Goose once serenaded civilians and fellow officers. Its modernized setting highlights how much has changed — and how much has stayed the same.

The choice to introduce the Hard Deck early in the film shows that Maverick is aware of the weight its legacy carries. Director Joseph Kosinski and producer Jerry Bruckheimer didn’t just want a familiar setting; they wanted a place where Maverick’s (Tom Cruise) enduring identity as a rebellious aviator could collide with the fresh energy of a new generation.

The setting visually and emotionally bridges the gap between Maverick’s past and his uncertain future.

Within the Hard Deck’s lively, chaotic environment, “Top Gun: Maverick” efficiently introduces its key characters and their interpersonal dynamics. The young pilots’ camaraderie, competitiveness and bravado are all laid bare before they even step into a flight simulator.

Maverick’s flirtatious — yet tentative — interaction with Penny rekindles a long-dormant part of his character, showing viewers he is still searching for connection and meaning beneath his hardened, reckless exterior.

‘Top Gun: Maverick’ actors Phoenix and Bob love their call signs

Meanwhile, the stage is set for the challenges ahead through the playful arrogance of younger aviators — particularly Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw (Miles Teller), whose relationship with Maverick is deeply complicated.

Rooster’s performance of “Great Balls of Fire” at the piano is perhaps the emotional heart of the scene, offering a powerful callback to his father, Goose, who played the same song in the original. It’s a moment that roots the film in legacy and loss, adding emotional complexity to what might otherwise have been just another rowdy night out.

The bar scene also serves as a window into military culture — an important detail for a film closely tied to naval aviation. Director Joseph Kosinski emphasized authenticity, drawing inspiration from real officers’ clubs and watering holes frequented by Navy personnel.

From the strict enforcement of bar rules to the subtle displays of hierarchy among pilots, the scene showcases how important social spaces are in building bonds off the battlefield. These moments ground the larger-than-life dogfights Maverick is famous for, reminding viewers that the pilots are, first and foremost, people.

Beyond introducing characters and culture, the bar scene moves the story forward. Maverick’s anonymous encounter with the young pilots allows the audience to see him as they do — just another older face among a rowdy, younger group. The playful banter shifts abruptly when the pilots realize Maverick will be their instructor, setting the stage for the tension that fuels much of the film’s middle act.

Maverick’s early humiliation at the Hard Deck — being tossed out for failing to pay his tab — is more than comic relief. It signals Maverick no longer commands automatic respect. He must earn it again, just as he did decades earlier.

This sequence allows the film to explore the broader theme of legacy versus relevance. Maverick must confront a world that views him as outdated, even as he still possesses lessons the new generation desperately needs.

The contrast between Maverick and the young pilots is at the heart of “Top Gun: Maverick,” and the Hard Deck embodies this generational divide. The younger aviators approach flying — and life — with different values and assumptions. They are products of an era where technology often outpaces instinct, where rules and systems sometimes supersede gut decision-making.

Maverick, however, remains fiercely loyal to the idea that no machine can replace a pilot’s raw skill and courage. The bar, with its rustic decor and physical games like darts and pool, becomes a symbol of this analog sensibility in a digital world.

While the younger pilots joke, drink and posture, Maverick remains an outsider — watchful, seasoned and burdened by memory. His presence reminds them that experience and resilience matter just as much as raw talent.

Though the bar scene undoubtedly tugs at the heartstrings of anyone familiar with the original film, it succeeds because it is not a hollow homage. It functions as a crucial pivot point that sets up character arcs, thematic depth and emotional stakes.

“Top Gun: Maverick” bridges decades without relying solely on the past by rooting new emotional beats in old memories. The Hard Deck is not just a tribute — it is an evolution, symbolizing both what was and what could still be.

The scene is a masterclass in balancing nostalgia with narrative necessity. It encapsulates the movie’s broader themes of legacy, mentorship and resilience without slowing the story’s momentum. Far from being a simple nod to fans of the original, it’s a rich, layered moment that underpins much of what makes Maverick resonate today.

It reminds audiences — and Maverick himself — that while times change, some traditions are worth keeping.

That day, Mendoza’s team was ambushed in a coordinated attack — a grenade, an improvised explosive device and a hail of small arms fire — shortly after setting up sniper overwatch in an Iraqi residence. By the time the team was evacuated, an Iraqi Army scout was dead. Two SEALs, including Mendoza’s best friend, Elliot, were severely wounded.

For his actions amid the chaos, Petty Officer Mendoza would be awarded the Silver Star, the third-highest decoration for combat valor. Now, that harrowing day in November 2006 anchors Mendoza’s feature directorial debut, “Warfare,” a film that unfolds in real time and is compiled entirely based on the memory of those who endured it.

To do the story justice, Mendoza enlisted the expertise of Alex Garland (“Ex Machina”), with whom he had collaborated on the 2024 blockbuster “Civil War” as the film’s weapons advisor.

Mendoza and Garland spoke with Military Times about the filmmaking process that followed, and everything that went into creating one of the most realistic depictions of combat ever made.

Read our review of “Warfare” here. Some interview answers have been edited for clarity.

‘Warfare’ is an intimate look at a major event in your life. How did this project come to fruition after all these years?

Ray Mendoza: I’ve pitched it a few times, but in the past it would have meant giving the idea to somebody and trusting them to do it right. I wanted to learn more in this industry, to see one day if it was even feasible to do it. That way, if it failed or succeeded, it’d be on me. So, I was just looking for the right opportunity to do it. Alex helped facilitate that.

Alex Garland: We wanted to take an hour and a half and try to recreate an instance of real combat as accurately as possible. Ray and I had worked together before and discussed whether there was a story he wanted to tell. This one had been on his mind for years.

RM: I would ask myself if I was ready, emotionally, to tell this story and expose myself like that, not knowing if it would be successful or resonate in the community.

So, I called the guys and said, “Hey, I want to do this for Elliot. Would you guys be a part of it?” I would only do it if they signed off. Then there’s trust with Alex, having worked with him on “Civil War.” I’ve worked with a lot of directors, and they have their message they want to put out. In those scenarios I don’t really have a lot of power. I’m an advisor. They can either take my advice or not, but they have their vision, and it’s not necessarily from the perspective of a veteran. But I knew Alex was receptive to that.

How were the creative processes shared between you two as you worked on this project?

RM: When it came to Alex and how we were going to work together — we’ve said this a few times: it takes a village, it’s teamwork. There were things I wanted to focus on — the battle rhythms of a firefight, the lulls, the peaks and valleys. There’s this silence, and then boom, it would just snap and pick back up.

That was my responsibility. And then Alex helped me figure out how we were going to extract those things. I wanted to show certain dynamics where, you know, if you spend enough time with a guy in combat, you don’t even need to say shit to him. I can just look at him, right? Sometimes he’ll smile, and I’ll know where he is mentally. If he’s just got that stare, I’m like, “Alright, I’m going to be the one making decisions on the next move.”

How do we capture that? Because there wasn’t going to be a lot of dialogue. So, Alex’s experience — teaching me what lens to use, how long to hold certain shots and then in the editing room — we really had to put all that together. I had the recipe and all the elements. His piece was helping me show it.

You mentioned minimal dialogue. Even though it was limited, the realism shined. How much teamwork went into that process?

RM: It was written down by Alex, but then we had to demonstrate how to say things — you know, me talking to you versus me talking on a radio or even to a pilot. There are different communication styles, tempos. I had to teach the cast that.

We also had a lot of help from Brian Philpot. He was a JTAC, and he kind of ran a comms course, going through all the verbiage in the script to get that rhythm down. A situation can be chaos, but when you hop on that radio, you have to get that composure, get out what you need to get out, then back to chaos. We put a lot of time into that.

Once the cast learned, we would just walk around like, “Hey, describe that street or that building. Talk this person onto a location.” Philpot would be listening and critiquing what they were saying and how they were saying it. A lot went into it.

The work showed in the cast’s delivery. How did they do with training, whether it be with dialogue or tactical elements?

RM: They were all sponges. You can’t replicate combat, but it was an intense crash course in weapons handling and safety. Even with these blanks, you can still hurt someone pretty bad. So, weapons safety was the priority.

I also had to identify who could shoot. If I had three months, I could teach everyone to shoot, but it’s tough in this time frame. It’s like the military — not everyone is good at everything. I just wanted to focus on this culture, create natural stress to get the brotherhood component. That’s just a matter of exposure.

If you’re patrolling at night and you’ve been around someone long enough you can tell who someone is just by the way they walk. You can almost predict what they’re going to do just based off their body posture. I wanted the actors to have that, so they spent a ton of time together. Some of the movements in the film — it’s because of that time together, all the practice patrols and being around each other.

How much time did the crew spend together?

RM: Training was three weeks, but then there’s five weeks of filming. But they spent every day together. It wasn’t like, “Oh, that’s a wrap, let me go back to my house.”

It sounds like a miniature deployment. Did you let them shower?

RM: Honestly I wish they would have fucking showered more. (Laughs)

But out of that, that brotherhood did take hold. I told them at the beginning to cherish that moment. “You’re gonna come out of this, and you’re gonna experience something that a lot of people don’t get to experience unless you join — and you’re getting paid to do this shit. This is fucking fun.”

I gave them a lot of autonomy, too. The weapon stuff is kind of easy. I can get someone from A to Z really fast. The goal was really more of, “I want you guys to really get to know each other, because you’re going to see your friend get his fucking legs blown off.” It’s immersive, and I think that paid dividends for us.

Even with that team dynamic, the moment the first casualty occurs in the film you see that no two guys react the same way to crisis. How much did your personal experience play into those details?

RM: All of it. In this particular scenario, you have to factor in outside variables like being concussed. Someone can be an awesome operator, a fucking machine, but then something like how close a grenade or claymore blast was can spiral you. Or maybe it’s being that close to death and surviving — it can startle you.

In this incident there’s an IED that goes off. So some didn’t ever get to recover during this fight. You just keep going deeper and deeper and deeper into that spiral. Within that team component, everyone wants to carry their own weight. When somebody can’t, that’s a scary feeling.

For me, it was dealing with black outs. One minute I’m here, the next minute I’m at that door. I remember walking up to the door at the end of the firefight and guys are giving me my gear back and they hand me three magazines. I was like, “When the fuck did I empty three magazines?”

I had been in a bunch of gun fights prior to that, but it was just that blast shock. Your brain’s like, “Alright, I’m taking over. You’ve done this a million times. I’m at the helm now.” And you start getting these gaps in your memory.

I really wanted to highlight that vulnerability and how, despite wanting to respond, sometimes your body’s like, “Nope, I just can’t do it right now.”

And then losing our Iraqi scouts, our medic was down, our LPO (lead petty officer) was down. At that point I think guys felt for the first time, like, if [the insurgents] wanted, they could bum-rush our building. We may kill a few, but we’re probably done. We were just combat ineffective at that point.

Depicting the fight in real time conveys that spiral vividly. How did you accumulate enough detail to compile an accurate 95-minute story?

AG: The whole process really is me listening to accumulate as much information as possible, which began with Ray. I spent a week with him, where he just downloaded everything he could and I made notes and listened.

And then we started to add to that with other people. There were gaps and blind spots, but slowly they’d get filled as we talked to more people. Sometimes memories would collide or contradict. That’s the nature of memory, because people develop tunnel vision in those moments. But slowly, all the missing elements seemed to get closed off.

The last missing element that was super confusing was that we had managed to get hold of some photos of this building taken shortly after this incident had happened. The photos were from Iraqis, not from the military. And there were some confusing pieces in the photos that became a good illustration of the way memory works.

The key one was that at the top of the flight of stairs there was what looked like a wall that had been knocked down. None of the people who were interviewed, including Ray, thought there was one there. It was really puzzling.

That was a bit of documentary evidence meets memory. That was typical of the difficulties of piecing this together. The night before we shot, we finally managed to speak to one individual, who is played by Joe Quinn in the film, and he explained that there was a wall they had to knock down. It was a house that had been turned into two apartments.

In another example, there were two machine gunners on a roof area. Each individual said, “I was there, and someone else was with me. But I can’t tell you who the other person was.” But through getting that same statement from the two, we were able to figure out who those guys were.

It was a lot of cross referencing accounts and a bit of detective work at times. But we were always trying to push towards truth. That’s the fidelity of this film, and why it exists in the way it exists. If we’d invented things, it would have the quality of invention about it.

The business was to listen and for Ray to explain and then tell everyone how to execute what was real, as much as possible. It’s not humanly possible to get it all right. But nothing was allowed to be in the movie that wasn’t verified in some way.

I’ve heard enough discussion about ‘Civil War’ to know cinema goers too often crave agendas versus simply accepting a film for what it is. What would you say to viewers of ‘Warfare’ who might be angling for it to make a statement?

AG: The film doesn’t have any sort of agenda. It’s just showing what happened. Everybody who worked on this film was not allowed to massage or alter anything. We were looking for total honesty, and to Ray’s immense credit and the credit of all those interviewed, they were truthful.

The only time I ever detected something that felt to me like untruth would be people slightly diminishing something about themselves in terms of their own courage. That’s cultural.

What that means is, in this film, you get a warts-and-all account. It is, in effect, neutral. It’s not proselytizing anything. It’s just saying, “This is the sequence of events,” and then it’s up to other people to act like adults and respond to it as they will, without us sticking helpful flags everywhere and saying, “This is what you should feel.”

Everyone wants an agenda. But there doesn’t have to be one in every film. We can just show something and talk about it. We were neutral, because the truth is neutral, and then you can take from that what you want.

Was bringing that truth out in this film — whether it was through instructing the actors or reconnecting with your teammates — a therapeutic experience?

RM: It was. Elliot was my best friend, and so when I saw him — that’s obviously something that lives in my brain forever.

Sometimes to function whenever something catastrophic happens, or even just seeing violence or death, you just push that down. You’re just like, “I have a job to do.” You compartmentalize everything over time.

Even in the case of this firefight, three days later we were all out fucking getting it again. You just don’t even have time to talk about it. You’re just packing more shit onto it. If someone else gets shot, you’re shoving that down, too.

But that monster is going to catch you one day. So, when I was looking at why I was making the movie I really had to ask myself if I was even ready. I called all the boys and told them, “I can’t do this without you guys. This is how I feel about it. What do you think?”

To make that decision and break that shell open — I knew it was going to hit me at some point, and it did. There’s a scene where D’Pharoah [Woon-A-Tai] is dragging Cosmo [Jarvis] up the driveway. We shot it a few times. Elliot was there on set. It was really his first time seeing what happened. We’d only described it to him to that point.

I remember how fucking hard dragging him was. I was like, “We’re both gonna get shot in the fucking face because I can’t drag you fast enough.” He’s a big dude, power lifter, had huge fucking quads and his whole kit on. I had my pack on.

I was halfway up the driveway and thinking, “That’s it.” I was breathing phosphorus in, my fucking lungs were on fire. I just couldn’t do it anymore. D’Pharoah captured it so well.

When Elliot first woke up in the hospital I was telling him about how hard that was. But when he saw it play out on set, he started crying. That just cracked it open for me right there. I called cut, then I ran off set and just cried for 10 minutes.

That needed to come out. I think we both needed to share that moment, as surreal and emotional as it was. That was probably, in a weird way, the only way that could have happened for me to let that go. I’d had a really hard time up to that point.

Read more about the story behind the film here. “Warfare” is now showing in theaters nationwide.

It was initially praised for its grounded military realism and tactical gameplay. Players were drawn to authentic combat scenarios, realistic weapon mechanics and carefully constructed maps that mirrored real-world military operations.

However, the franchise introduced elements over the years that deviated from this realism approach. Fantastical operator skins, oversized weapon blueprints and arcade-style movement systems became more prevalent. While these additions were meant to keep the game fresh, they gradually alienated a segment of players loyal to Warzone’s original tone.

The move away from realism sparked backlash within the community. On forums like Reddit, players voiced mounting frustrations over a game that felt increasingly disconnected from its roots.

One Reddit user summarized the general sentiment bluntly: “Player base has dropped 83% since December. What is it going to take for them to finally fix things?”

Technical issues, rampant cheating and perceived developer missteps further compounded the problem.

“Warzone faces interconnected challenges: Technical difficulties, cheating, and perceived developer missteps combine to create a frustrating experience for players,” an article from Z League stated.

Player numbers steadily declined and the once-thriving Warzone community appeared to be splintering, with many veterans of the game moving on to other titles.

Facing an increasingly frustrated player base and a steep drop in engagement, Activision announced a return to basics. On April 3, 2025, the fictional city of Verdansk officially returned to Warzone as part of Season 3, marking a major franchise strategy shift.

The map that started it all, rebuilt from the ground up 💥

Take a deep dive with @BeenoxTeam at this first look at Verdansk - returning April 3 🪂 pic.twitter.com/ckYA5PEEJy

— Call of Duty (@CallofDuty) March 24, 2025

Unlike past seasonal updates, which were packed with crossovers and spectacle, the new Verdansk focuses heavily on the experience that first put Warzone on the map.

Activision described the updated Verdansk as “painstakingly rebuilt from the ground up,” with the goal of balancing immersion with streamlined movement mechanics while stripping away much of the excess that had dominated previous seasons.

This updated version features familiar points of interest, slight graphical enhancements and subtle changes to improve flow and player engagement. It intentionally avoids the bloated cosmetics and game-breaking mechanics that had come to characterize recent seasons.

The decision to bring back Verdansk has already paid dividends. Call of Duty’s player count on Steam reportedly surged over 200% following the map’s reintroduction, the highest recorded for the game in 2025.

Many longtime players have welcomed the change, with early reactions praising the return to a more grounded, tactical experience.

Professional darts player Michael van Gerwen adequately captured the excitement, saying, “I can’t wait for Verdansk to return.”

Industry analysts agree that Verdansk’s return marks a critical course correction. TechRadar reported that Verdansk’s revival is seen as a “huge opportunity to recapture players that have since left Warzone for other games.”

The reintroduction of Verdansk is more than a nostalgic move — it’s a conscious effort by Activision to realign Call of Duty: Warzone with the formula that originally made it successful.

After years of straying into increasingly arcade-like territory, Warzone seems determined to re-establish itself as the tactical, grounded shooter that first captured millions of players around the world.

Whether this return to form is enough to sustain long-term success remains to be seen, but for now, Verdansk’s comeback has reminded players why they fell in love with Warzone in the first place.

After spending nearly three hours in the latest iteration of Warzone, it’s clear that much of the pomp and spectacle added in recent years has been stripped away. What remains is the closest product to the original 2020 release that the franchise has delivered in a long time.

Gone are the days of omnidirectional movement, redeploy balloons and other aesthetic “enhancements” that strayed from the spirit of traditional military shooters. In their place is a refined, slower-paced version of combat where shooting first and smart positioning are once again keys to survival.

While there is still room for fine-tuning, Activision’s latest installment feels like a genuine return to form. Warzone has found its footing again.

Ramadi had become a hornet’s nest of insurgent activity in 2006. For Mendoza’s team, who occupied the home alongside Marines from an Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company and two Iraqi Army scouts, Nov. 19 would become a microcosm of that year’s hostilities.

As snipers observed the street below through a hole in the home’s second-story wall, keeping detailed logs of civilian movements, an insurgent grenade clanged onto the floor seemingly out of thin air. The close-quarters explosion wounded one and rattled others. Mendoza radioed for nearby Bradley Fighting Vehicles to evacuate the wounded SEAL.

Just as one of the Bradleys churned to a halt to rendezvous with the approaching SEALs, a massive improvised explosive device detonated, sending a shockwave up the street and blanketing the block in a stagnant cloud of dust, smoke and phosphorus. An Iraqi scout was killed instantly. Seven others were injured, some severely. The ambush was on.

Amid the carnage, Petty Officer Mendoza advanced into the street that was now littered with twisted metal and human remains. With small arms fire peppering the stunned troops, Mendoza sighted in on enemy fighters and pulled the trigger again and again, the sound of his weapon emitting dull thumps due to the blast-induced sensory deprivation.

Mendoza soon spotted his best friend, Elliot, in the street on his back, his legs gnarled with compound fractures. He dragged the wounded SEAL — a “big dude, powerlifter, had huge quads and his whole kit on,” Mendoza told Military Times — to cover, Elliot’s lower legs swaying unnaturally as Mendoza pulled.

Phosphorus lingering from the blast scorched Mendoza’s lungs with each arduous breath as he dragged Elliot and began to render aid. What seemed like days transpired before an earnest call for a second MEDEVAC attempt finally yielded success. Mendoza and his teammates carried the wounded SEAL to the Bradley under intense fire. Miraculously, Elliot would survive his wounds.

For his actions, Mendoza was awarded the Silver Star, the third-highest decoration for combat valor. Now, that harrowing day in November 2006 anchors Mendoza’s feature directorial debut, “Warfare,” a film compiled entirely based on the memory of those who endured it.

Mendoza had been kicking around the film idea for years. He’d ventured into the industry years prior, doing stunt work and behind-the-scenes weapons advising on select projects. But there was no rush to make the directorial leap, he said, especially with a story that personal — and one he wanted to do to honor Elliot.

“I would ask myself if I was ready, emotionally, to tell this story and expose myself like that,” he said. He also refused to pursue the project unless those who were there gave him the green light.

Once everyone was on board, he endeavored to enlist the expertise of a director who would approach the project sans agenda. Enter filmmaker Alex Garland (“Ex Machina”), with whom Mendoza collaborated on the 2024 blockbuster “Civil War” as the film’s weapons advisor.

“There’s trust with Alex,” Mendoza said. “I’ve worked with a lot of directors, and they have their message they want to put out. In those scenarios I don’t really have a lot of power. I’m an adviser. They can either take my advice or not. But I knew Alex was receptive.”

Mendoza’s idea that became “Warfare” did not adhere to traditional film structure shepherded along prolonged timelines and underscored by character development. Instead, the film follows the Nov. 19 fight in a real-time, chronological sequence, from the moment the SEALs embark on the mission to — about an hour and a half later — the final medical evacuation. When an actor announces that the Bradley vehicle is three minutes out from the extraction point, for example, it actually arrives three minutes later in the film.

This approach means Mendoza’s heroics, which are wonderfully portrayed on screen by D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai (“Reservation Dogs”), comprise just a sliver of the film’s 95 powerfully immersive minutes, yielding instead to an ultra-realistic, increasingly claustrophobic sense of dread each individual must navigate inside the home’s battered walls.

Mendoza and Garland interviewed many who were there — and even referenced Iraqi-provided photos of the residence and surrounding area — to gather the detail necessary to depict the events, as well as the corresponding human responses, as accurately as possible.

Every granular detail, from dialogue all the way to physical positioning of individuals during a particular moment, is based on information gleaned during that interview process. No intentional creative liberties were taken.

“The whole filmmaking process really is me listening to accumulate as much information as possible, which began with Ray,” Garland told Military Times. “And then we started to add to that with [talking to] other people. There were gaps and blind spots, but slowly they’d get filled as we talked to more.

“We were looking for total honesty, and to Ray’s immense credit and the credit of all those interviewed, they were truthful. The only time I ever detected something that felt to me like untruth would be people slightly diminishing something about themselves in terms of their own courage. That’s the culture.”

The end result is as realistic and detailed a portrayal of Iraq War combat — and life in combat arms — as anything that’s ever been created.

Military jargon — “MAMs” to describe military-aged males, etc. — anchors dialogue. Radio communications are not just accurately enunciated, but differ in tempo and cadence when communicating with, for instance, on-base command versus air support.

Environmental touches, from wall art in the home to decorative tiling and the style of the residence’s entry gate, are identical to what many will have seen in Iraq.

Round impacts snap and crack. IED and grenade blasts, the sounds of which wrested most theatergoers from their seats, take even experienced SEALs out of the fight in the form of mental spiraling. For others, blackouts occur.

“One minute I’m here, the next minute I’m at that door,” Mendoza said. “I remember walking up to the door at the end of the firefight and guys are giving me my gear back and they hand me three magazines. I was like, ‘When the fuck did I empty three magazines?’

“It was just that blast shock. Your brain’s like, ‘Alright, I’m taking over. You’ve done this a million times. I’m at the helm now.’ And you start getting these gaps in your memory.”

There are also moments of levity that will resonate.

The film’s opening cinematography is graced by the aggressive, spandex-clad hip thrusts from the 2004 music video “Call on me” by Eric Prydz. When the camera turns to those watching the video, it reveals a scene familiar to any who deployed to combat in the early years of the Global War on Terror: a crudely constructed plywood hut packed to the gills by camouflaged young men swarmed around a single small screen, flies drawn to the soft glow of the opposite sex.

The group soon launches into a frenzied “Call on Me” chorus as the video’s dancers thrust away.

In a flash, the scene snaps to a Ramadi street, where, under the cover of darkness, two troops on opposite sides of the road engage in a brief dance-off, still inspired, despite their proximity to potential hostilities, by the immature glee of shared horniness.

In another scene, Cosmo Jarvis (”Shogun”), who plays Mendoza’s friend Elliot, stands up from his sniper position to stretch and stares at Woon-A-Tai — for what feels like an eternity — until the awkward gag elicits a smile from his good friend. Even during a firefight sequence, when a character trips as he bounds back toward the house, a SEAL played by Will Poulter (”The Revenant,” “Detroit”) cracks a brief smile amid the chaos. “Dude, I thought you were hit.”

“That’s the fidelity of this film. None of it is invented,” Garland said. “He did trip there, and he said when he picked himself up, the person [Poulter] is playing shot him this weird smile.”

Faithfulness to the story, meanwhile, meant encountering certain horrors that had long been suppressed by those who contributed to the film’s creation.

Trauma has a way of getting compartmentalized, especially in demanding professions that continue demanding it of the same people for decades. Mendoza and other SEALs were right back outside the wire and into the inferno three days after the events featured in the film.

“You just don’t even have time to talk about it,” he said. “You’re just packing more shit onto it.”

Still, Mendoza said he knew the emotions would hit him at some point.

The scene in which Woon-A-Tai drags Jarvis was filmed a few times, Mendoza said. On site for filming that day was Elliot, who had never seen what happened to him.

“When Elliot first woke up in the hospital, I was telling him about how hard [dragging him] was,” Mendoza said. “But when he saw it play out on set, he started crying. That just cracked it open for me right there. I called cut, then I ran off set and just cried for 10 minutes.

“That was probably the most powerful moment. I think we both needed to share that, as surreal and emotional as it was. That was probably, in a weird way, the only way that for me to let that go. I’d had a really hard time up to that point.”

The lasting impacts of combat continue to be hard for many who endured traumas during the Global War on Terror’s 20-plus years. Though “Warfare” captures just a 95-minute window of it, the film manages to get right what so many others in the genre — even the good ones — get wrong.

Such fights are never remembered by their participants through the convenient lens of a Hollywood-style personal interest story, nor do young troops concern themselves with a politicized agenda when they’re mired in heat and blood-stained dirt.

War is, instead, remembered for friendships, for unnatural hellishness in brief, but indelible moments and for the immense weight young people who endure the cost must carry for the rest of their years.

“Warfare” demonstrates an intimate understanding of that spirit, from the film’s opening scene to its gut-wrenching closing dedication.

“For Elliot.”

“Warfare” hits theaters April 11.

So, how does one stop an insatiable Jody in his tracks? For one seaman, the solution was simple: Beat out the competition by simply being there.

On July 20, 1967, Petty Officer 1st Class David Jarvis Anderson submitted an unusual special leave request. His plea was simple.

“My wife is planning on getting pregnant this weekend,” he wrote, “and I would sure like to be there when it happens.”

Anderson’s tongue-in-cheek entreaty seemed to have worked. It was, after all, the Summer of Love.

While requests for special liberty can often reduce a poor service member to a desperate husk of a man, in 1967, it appears that the powers that be were a little more forgiving — allowing for Anderson to enjoy shore leave in the right port during a particularly crucial tide.

In traveling the seven-plus hours from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to the coal mining town of Layland, West Virginia, the sailor thwarted all would-be Jody’s in the area upon his arrival home.

No word was readily available, however, on whether the pair’s weekend’s festivities produced the desired result.

I was in southern Afghanistan in May 2014 when a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device detonated near me while covering a routine patrol as a public affairs specialist.

It was something I had a dozen times before, but in a flash I was on my back, ears ringing, lungs full of dust.

I don’t remember the sound — just the silence that came after. That was the first time I learned what silence was — that unique brand that only occurs when your brain is trying to reboot and you’re unsure what may or may not be broken.

The blast knocked me out cold. When I came to, nothing was where it had been. The explosion left me with a traumatic brain injury and partial deafness in my right ear, with tinnitus that still rings to this day. I deal with memory loss, light sensitivity and sudden moments of confusion or panic that attack without warning.

I am fortunate to be alive. Not everyone who has gone through the same experience can say the same. That fact followed me home and into civilian life. It followed me into comedy.

After I was medically retired from the Army, I felt unmoored. I didn’t want to be thanked for my service. I wanted to feel something again — other than adrenaline and dread. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to make other people laugh.

So, I started writing, chasing the rhythm of a good joke like I used to chase good light for a photo while convincing people I was more than just a POG. (Writing that last sentence and saying it out loud, I realize that’s probably the best joke I will ever tell.)

My civilian work eventually took me to Chicago, where I enrolled at The Second City, a comedy institution where the entire curriculum is built around turning pain into timing, a place where you’re not only encouraged but expected to fail. But even with all that structure and guidance, and despite learning from the best and being repeatedly told I was capable and that my story mattered, it still wasn’t enough.

I was scared — terrified, actually. Not of the stage, but of being exposed, of being seen, of letting people in on what the war had done to me.

So, I took a break — a long one at that. I told myself I needed time to write, reset and work on new material. But the truth was more simple: I didn’t know who I was without the uniform, and I wasn’t sure if people would laugh at what was left.

For a long time, I convinced myself I hadn’t earned the right to be on stage. Like telling jokes meant I wasn’t honoring the people who didn’t come home. Or that getting a laugh somehow cheapened what had happened.

But here’s what I’ve learned as months went by: if I survived, I’m still allowed to speak. I’m allowed to create. I’m allowed to be more than what happened to me.

Two years ago, I got back on stage. There wasn’t some profound moment that caused me to do so. I just went out and did it, embracing the fear that had gripped me for so long. With the encouragement from friends and a refresher with the Armed Services Arts Partnership, I slowly started to find my comedic voice again.

Strangely enough, performing again reminded me of being on a mission. You rehearse. You plan. You step into a high-stakes environment where nothing is guaranteed. And then you execute.

The audience, like a patrol route, is unpredictable. You adjust. You move. You adapt. You get through it or you don’t — but you’re changed by it either way.

When I bomb now, I don’t panic, because — without sounding too cliche — I know what actual bombing is. I’ve felt the pressure change before an explosion. I’ve seen the color drain from the world. So, when a joke doesn’t land, I breathe. I wait. I reset. I’ll write something better next time.

What that VBIED taught me — besides basic blast physics — is that timing matters and silence isn’t always failure. Sometimes it’s the space before the punchline.

It also taught me people are always watching how you carry yourself when everything goes wrong. In combat, it’s about bearing. In comedy, it’s about confidence. My pace on stage is a reflection of that. It’s slower, calculated and rehearsed. You don’t have to pretend you’re invincible, but you do have to show the crowd you’re still in control — even when the wheels are coming off.

I used to think comedy and combat were opposites. The two could never co-exist. One is chaos, the other is craft. One is pain, the other is relief. But now I see them as siblings. Both rely on rhythm. Both require you to say the unspeakable out loud. And each demands you be fully present in moments where the stakes are high and the outcome is unknown.

This May will mark 11 years since I was blown up. And while the scars remain, so does the voice. The one that says, “You’re still here. Say something useful.”

Some nights that voice tells a joke about memory loss or PTSD. Other times it gets on stage and tries not to flinch at the light. And then during others it wonders how many people in the audience have their own hidden war stories.

But every night, that voice remembers that laughter is proof of life. And that after everything, I’m still standing.

Still up. Still writing. Still here.

Fisher, played by Derek Luke, is stationed at Naval Station San Diego, where his quick temper and inability to control his emotions lead to repeated altercations. Rather than discharging him, his superiors order him to undergo mandatory therapy sessions with Navy psychiatrist Dr. Jerome Davenport, played by Washington.

The relationship that develops between Washington and Luke serves as the film’s emotional core, illustrating how leadership in the military isn’t just about discipline but also recognizing and addressing the underlying struggles of those who serve.

First look at ‘Warfare’ brings viewers into tenacity of Iraq War

Unlike many military films centered around war, “Antwone Fisher” presents the military as both a refuge and a crucible. Fisher is not fighting an enemy overseas; he is fighting the ghosts of his past. The film uses flashbacks to reveal his troubled childhood in foster care, where he suffered physical, emotional and sexual abuse. These memories manifest in his present-day outbursts, but the Navy provides him with something his past never did: structure, accountability and an opportunity for healing.

The disciplinary system within the military plays a major role in Fisher’s story. The film highlights the real-world consequences of misconduct under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Fisher’s aggression and inability to control his emotions put him at risk of discharge. Still, instead of being cast aside, he is given a chance to address the root of his behavior. His therapy sessions with Davenport are not just about compliance; they become battles of their own. Fisher resists, denies and deflects, much like a soldier refusing to acknowledge a wound.

Rather than treating Fisher as just another troubled sailor, Davenport takes a personal interest in his rehabilitation. The film gradually shifts from portraying Davenport as merely a psychiatrist to showing him as a mentor, even a surrogate father. His stern yet compassionate approach forces Fisher to confront his pain, mirroring the role of many military leaders in shaping and guiding their subordinates.

In the film, the structure, rules and discipline of the military — once suffocating for Fisher — become essential in helping him regain control over his life. But the film also makes it clear that the military, despite its ability to provide order, cannot erase personal trauma. Service members do not enlist as blank slates — they bring their pasts. Fisher’s story is one of resilience, showing that personal growth and healing are possible even within the rigid framework of the military.

The film’s climax is not on a battlefield but in Fisher’s return to his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. After years of suppressing his past, he decides to seek out the biological family he has never met. His reunion with his relatives, particularly the embrace of his long-lost aunt and grandmother, is the emotional equivalent of a soldier coming home after the war. He also confronts his former foster mother, standing up to her in a moment that is both heartbreaking and triumphant. Here, Fisher wins his greatest battle — not against an enemy, but against the hold his past had over him.

More than 20 years after its release, “Antwone Fisher” remains one of the most overlooked military films, yet it tells a profoundly relevant story to many service members. While most war films focus on external combat, this one examines the internal battles many military personnel carry. The trauma that Fisher endures does not stem from combat — it precedes it. His enlistment does not immediately solve his problems but provides the structure and support he needs to face them.

While many military films are about survival on the battlefield, “Antwone Fisher” is about survival beyond it. It is about how the military can be a place of redemption for those who arrive carrying burdens far heavier than a rucksack. It is about leadership beyond the chain of command, mentorship beyond standard orders and battles that do not end with enlistment. For anyone who has served or ever struggled with the weight of their past, “Antwone Fisher” is a film that deserves to be remembered.

While shooter franchises like “Call of Duty,” “Battlefield” and “Tom Clancy’s Rainbow Six Siege” claim to deliver the most immersive combat experiences, few demand players think, move and fight like a soldier as effectively as “The Last of Us Part II.” Set several years after the hit 2013 original, “The Last of Us Part II” follows Ellie and Abby on their quests for revenge in a world ravaged by a fungal pandemic.

From deliberate movement and stealth mechanics to an AI system that reacts dynamically, this game offers one of the most tactically immersive combat experiences in modern gaming.

Tactical movement: Every step matters

Many military shooters prioritize speed and reflexes over actual battlefield tactics. In “Call of Duty,” for example, players can slide-cancel, bunny-hop and sprint full-speed into combat, creating a gameplay style more about twitch reflexes than actual tactical movement. Even “Battlefield,” known for larger-scale engagements, relies on sprint-heavy gameplay rather than methodical positioning.

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In contrast, “The Last of Us Part II” is about deliberate movement and situational awareness. Every step feels weighty, and a single mistake — running too loud, stepping into the open too soon or getting caught in a bad position — can mean death.

Ellie, the game’s primary protagonist, moves like a trained survivor rather than a bullet sponge. She can go prone, crawl under vehicles and navigate tight spaces to avoid detection by human enemies and zombie-like creatures. This mechanic fundamentally changes how players engage enemies, making stealth a viable option in a way that most military shooters fail to implement.

Even small environmental details, such as tall grass, mud and broken-down vehicles, offer cover, forcing players to constantly evaluate their surroundings rather than rely on static chest-high walls.

AI behavior: Enemies that react and adapt

The biggest issue with enemy AI in most war games is predictability.

In “Call of Duty,” enemies follow scripted paths, take cover in obvious locations and often just run straight at the player. Despite its tactical focus, “Rainbow Six Siege” uses enemy AI that rarely adjusts dynamically to player decisions.

In “The Last of Us Part II,” enemies communicate, adapt and react to the player’s tactics. The game features two main human factions: the Washington Liberation Front (WLF) — a paramilitary group that uses actual military tactics like bounding overwatch and suppressive fire — and the Seraphites, a cult-like group that communicates through eerie whistles instead of words, forcing players to decipher enemy movements on the fly. Each has its own mannerisms and movements, providing a real-world experience unlike any other war game on the market.

Unlike “Call of Duty” AI enemies, WLF soldiers and Seraphites actively search for the player when alerted, calling out their last known position. Killing one enemy doesn’t just clear a path — it alerts the squad. Enemies will flank, use suppressive fire and adjust their approach based on your play.

Enemies also react emotionally to combat, calling out the names of their fallen comrades and expressing fear when outgunned.

Weapons and combat: Every shot counts

Unlike most shooters, where players carry multiple high-capacity magazines and an endless supply of grenades, “The Last of Us Part II” forces players to carefully scavenge, craft and manage ammunition.

Meanwhile, weapons are handcrafted and modified at workbenches, forcing players to adapt to limited resources rather than unlocking better gear. Silenced pistols — crafted by Ellie — allow for stealth kills but have limited durability before the suppressor breaks.

Primary weapons also make firefights feel more real. Bolt-action rifles provide high damage at long range but have slow reload times, and pump-action shotguns are devastating in close quarters but loud enough to attract attention.

Unlike most war games, where melee is an afterthought, “The Last of Us Part II” makes it a core survival mechanic. Machetes, axes and makeshift clubs deal massive damage but break after repeated use, while enemies dodge and counter melee attacks, forcing players to time swings rather than just button-mash.

In “The Last of Us Part II,” it’s not about high kill counts, streaks or overpowered perks — it’s about using every resource, taking every fight seriously and understanding that no one walks away unscathed in real combat.

“The Last of Us” season two premieres April 13 at 9 p.m. ET/PT on HBO and will be available to stream on Max.

The service’s Joint Program Executive Office for Armaments and Ammunition broke ground Feb. 5 on a 6.8 mm ammunition production facility at Lake City Army Ammunition Plant in Independence, Missouri, according to an Army release.

Current plans show the facility being completed by 2026 and fully operational by 2028, officials said.

These units are getting the Army's newest rifle and machine gun combo

The move aims to give the service its own production line for the 6.8 mm cartridge, which is the caliber the Next Generation Squad Weapon is chambered for, both in its rifle and automatic rifle configuration.

The XM5 and XM250, respectively, are replacing their counterparts, the M4 carbine and M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, among the close combat forces. Both are chambered in the legacy 5.56 mm cartridge.

The Army is leading the project, while the Marine Corps and Special Operations Command have been closely involved in the development of the weapon and round in recent years.

Lake City has been a major source of small arms ammunition for the Army and other services for decades. Historically, the plant has produced 5.56 mm, 7.62 mm, .50 Browning Machine Gun, and 20 mm ammunition.

During the height of the post-9/11 wars, from 2007 to 2018, the plant produced nearly 1.4 billion rounds, according to Northrop Grumman.

“It is not lost on me that victory on the battlefield begins in our production facilities,” Maj. Gen. John T. Reim, program executive officer for armaments and ammunition, said in a statement. “Lake City has been central to our nation’s ammunition production since 1941, and this new facility builds on that proud and historic legacy.”

The 6.8 mm round delivers the distance and energy on target of the larger 7.62 mm round but at a lighter weight and with better accuracy, according to Army officials.

Currently, rounds for the Next Generation Squad Weapon are being produced by Sig Sauer, manufacturer of both the rifle and automatic rifle variants.

Ammunition manufacturer Olin Winchester will operate the new plant. The facility will span 450,000 square feet at the Missouri site, according to the Army.

The operation will include manufacturing systems for cartridge cases and projectiles, quality controls, packaging and testing laboratories. According to the release, industries in the Kansas City, Missouri, region will support an estimated 90% of the work.

When the facility hits operational status, it is expected to produce 385 million cases, 490 million projectiles and 385 million loading and packaging operations rounds each year.

There are about a dozen units in the fielding pipeline for the Next Generation Squad Weapon in fiscal 2025. They include:

• From October to December, the Army Reserve’s 100th Infantry Battalion, 442nd Infantry Regiment at Fort Shafter, Hawaii; elements of the 25th Infantry Division, at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii; the Army’s Ordnance School, at Fort Gregg-Adams, Virginia.
• From January to March, the 3rd Brigade, 101st Airborne Division at Fort Campbell, Kentucky; 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Washington; 1st Brigade, 1st Armored Division, at Fort Bliss, Texas.
• From April to June, the 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment at Hunter Army Airfield, Savannah, Georgia.
• From July to September, the 1st Brigade, 34th Infantry Division with the Minnesota Army National Guard; multiple 10th Mountain Division battalions.

Last October, the 1st Battalion, 506th Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division was one of the units to conduct live-fire testing of the weapon. The “Red Curahee” soldiers ran tactical patrols after having run shooting ranges at limited visibility, according to the Army.

The squad-sized elements put the weapon through its paces on terrain at their home station of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. At the time, Maj. Craig Hymel, the battalion executive officer, explained the culminating event.

“The squad live [fire] will be the last event in conjunction with the stress shoot that participants execute,” Hymel said. “At which point, the Operational Assessment Team is going to collect and finalize all the data.”

Hackman, a Marine Corps veteran, was a frequent and versatile presence on screen from the 1960s until his retirement. His dozens of films included the Academy Award favorites “The French Connection” and “Unforgiven,” a breakout performance in “Bonnie and Clyde,” a classic bit of farce in “Young Frankenstein,” a turn as the comic book villain Lex Luthor in “Superman” and the title character in Wes Anderson’s 2001 “The Royal Tenenbaums.”

He seemed capable of any kind of role — whether an uptight buffoon in “Birdcage,” a college coach finding redemption in the sentimental favorite “Hoosiers” or a secretive surveillance expert in Francis Ford Coppola’s Watergate-era release “The Conversation.”

“Gene Hackman a great actor, inspiring and magnificent in his work and complexity,” Coppola said on Instagram. “I mourn his loss, and celebrate his existence and contribution.”

Although self-effacing and unfashionable, Hackman held special status within Hollywood — heir to Spencer Tracy as an everyman, actor’s actor, curmudgeon and reluctant celebrity. He embodied the ethos of doing his job, doing it very well, and letting others worry about his image. Beyond the obligatory appearances at awards ceremonies, he was rarely seen on the social circuit and made no secret of his disdain for the business side of show business.

“Actors tend to be shy people,” he told Film Comment in 1988. “There is perhaps a component of hostility in that shyness, and to reach a point where you don’t deal with others in a hostile or angry way, you choose this medium for yourself. ... Then you can express yourself and get this wonderful feedback.”

A late but promising start

He was an early retiree — essentially done, by choice, with movies by his mid-70s — after being a late bloomer. Hackman was 35 when cast for “Bonnie and Clyde” and past 40 when he won his first Oscar, as the rules-bending New York City detective Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle in the 1971 thriller about tracking down Manhattan drug smugglers, “The French Connection.”

Jackie Gleason, Steve McQueen and Peter Boyle were among the actors considered for Doyle. Hackman was a minor star at the time, seemingly without the flamboyant personality that the role demanded. The actor himself feared that he was miscast. A couple of weeks of nighttime patrols of Harlem in police cars helped reassure him.

One of the first scenes of “The French Connection” required Hackman to slap around a suspect. The actor realized he had failed to achieve the intensity that the scene required, and asked director William Friedkin for another chance. The scene was filmed at the end of the shooting, by which time Hackman had immersed himself in the loose-cannon character of Popeye Doyle. Friedkin would recall needing 37 takes to get the scene right.

“I had to arouse an anger in Gene that was lying dormant, I felt, within him — that he was sort of ashamed of and didn’t really want to revisit,” Friedkin told the Los Angeles Review of Books in 2012.

The most famous sequence was dangerously realistic: A car chase in which Det. Doyle speeds under elevated subway tracks, his brown Pontiac (driven by a stuntman) screeching into areas that the filmmakers had not received permits for. When Doyle crashes into a white Ford, it wasn’t a stuntman driving the other car, but a New York City resident who didn’t know a movie was being made.

Hackman also resisted the role which brought him his second Oscar. When Clint Eastwood first offered him Little Bill Daggett, the corrupt town boss in “Unforgiven,” Hackman turned it down. But he realized that Eastwood was planning to make a different kind of Western, a critique, not a celebration of violence. The film won him the Academy Award as best supporting actor of 1992.

“To his credit, and my joy, he talked me into it,” Hackman said of Eastwood during an interview with the American Film Institute.

Hackman played super-villain Lex Luthor opposite Christopher Reeve in director Richard Donner’s 1978 “Superman,” a film that established the prototype for the modern superhero movie. He also starred in two sequels.

Rough beginnings

Eugene Allen Hackman was born in San Bernardino, California, and grew up in Danville, Illinois, where his father worked as a pressman for the Commercial-News. His parents fought repeatedly, and his father often used his fists on Gene to take out his rage. The boy found refuge in movie houses, identifying with such screen rebels as Errol Flynn and James Cagney as his role models.

When Gene was 13, his father waved goodbye and drove off, never to return. The abandonment was a lasting injury to Gene. His mother had become an alcoholic and was constantly at odds with her mother, with whom the shattered family lived. (Gene had a younger brother, actor Richard Hackman).

At 16, he “suddenly got the itch to get out.”

Lying about his age, Hackman enlisted in the United States Marine Corps, serving from 1946 to 1951 as a field radio operator with stints in China, Japan and Hawaii.

He later used the G.I. Bill to study journalism and television production at the University of Illinois, leaving eventually to return to California.

In his early 30s, before his film career took off, his mother died in a fire started by her own cigarette.

“Dysfunctional families have sired a lot of pretty good actors,” he observed ironically during a 2001 interview with The New York Times.

Nomadic career path leads to stage

His brawling and resistance to authority led to his being demoted from corporal three times. His taste of show business came when he conquered his mic fright and became disc jockey and news announcer on his unit’s radio station.

With a high school degree he earned during his time as a Marine, Hackman enrolled in journalism at the University of Illinois. He dropped out after six months to study radio announcing in New York. After working at stations in Florida and his hometown of Danville, he returned to New York to study painting at the Art Students League. Hackman switched again to enter an acting course at the Pasadena Playhouse.

Back in New York, he found work as a doorman and truck driver among other jobs waiting for a break as an actor, sweating it out with such fellow hopefuls as Robert Duvall and Dustin Hoffman. Summer work at a theater on Long Island led to roles off-Broadway. Hackman began attracting attention from Broadway producers, and he received good notices in such plays as “Any Wednesday,” with Sandy Dennis, and “Poor Richard,” with Alan Bates.

During a tryout in New Haven for another play, Hackman was seen by film director Robert Rossen, who hired him for a brief role in “Lilith,” which starred Warren Beatty and Jean Seberg. He played small roles in other films, including “Hawaii,” and leads in television dramas of the early 1960s such as “The Defenders” and “Naked City.”

When Beatty began work on “Bonnie and Clyde,” which he produced and starred in, he remembered Hackman and cast him as bank robber Clyde Barrow’s outgoing brother. Pauline Kael in The New Yorker called Hackman’s work “a beautifully controlled performance, the best in the film,” and he was nominated for an Academy Award as supporting actor.

Near misses and a star-making turn

Hackman nearly appeared in another immortal film of 1967, “The Graduate.” He was supposed to play the cuckolded husband of Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft), but director Mike Nichols decided he was too young and replaced him with Murray Hamilton. Two years later, he was considered for what became one of television’s most famous roles, patriarch Mike Brady of “The Brady Bunch.” Producer Sherwood Schwartz wanted Hackman to audition, but network executives thought he was too obscure. (The part went to Robert Reed).

Hackman’s first starring film role came in 1970 with “I Never Sang for My Father,” as a man struggling to deal with a failed relationship with his dying father, Melvyn Douglas. Because of Hackman’s distress over his own father, he resisted connecting to the role.

In his 2001 Times interview, he recalled: “Douglas told me, `Gene, you’ll never get what you want with the way you’re acting.’ And he didn’t mean acting; he meant I was not behaving myself. He taught me not to use my reservations as an excuse for not doing the job.” Even though he had the central part, Hackman was Oscar-nominated as supporting actor and Douglas as lead. The following year he won the Oscar as best actor for “The French Connection.”

Through the years, Hackman kept working, in pictures good and bad. For a time he seemed to be in a contest with Michael Caine for the world’s busiest Oscar winner. In 2001 alone, he appeared in “The Mexican,” “Heartbreakers,” “Heist,” “The Royal Tenenbaums” and “Behind Enemy Lines.” But by 2004, he was openly talking about retirement, telling Larry King he had no projects lined up. His only credit in recent years was narrating a Smithsonian Channel documentary, “The Unknown Flag Raiser of Iwo Jima.”

In 1956, Hackman married Fay Maltese, a bank teller he had met at a YMCA dance in New York. They had a son, Christopher, and two daughters, Elizabeth and Leslie, but divorced in the mid-1980s. In 1991 he married Arakawa, a classical pianist.

When not on film locations, Hackman enjoyed painting, stunt flying, stock car racing and deep sea diving. In his latter years, he wrote novels and lived on his ranch in Sante Fe, New Mexico, on a hilltop looking out on the Colorado Rockies, a view he preferred to his films that popped up on television.

“I’ll watch maybe five minutes of it,” he once told Time magazine, “and I’ll get this icky feeling, and I turn the channel.”

California-based Anduril formerly assisted Microsoft with the $22 billion program by integrating the Lattice platform into the Integrated Visual Augmentation System, or IVAS. Lattice allowed soldiers to see threats in real time by removing delays in processing signals between devices, according to a company statement.

Anduril will assume oversight of production, future development of hardware and software, and delivery timelines, according to a joint release from the two companies. Microsoft will continue to partner with Anduril on the project. Microsoft Azure will be the “preferred hyperscale cloud” for Anduril on all things related to IVAS.

Anduril Founder Palmer Luckey, the designer of the virtual-reality headset Oculus Rift, laid out his vision for the future of the IVAS program Tuesday in a blog post titled, “Turning Soldiers into Superheroes.”

“For me, this announcement is deeply personal. Since my pre-Oculus days as a teenager who had the opportunity to do a tiny bit of work on the Army’s BRAVEMIND project, I’ve believed there would be a headset on every soldier long before there is a headset on every civilian,” Luckey wrote.

Army's mixed reality device set for upgrades and battalion assessment

He wrote that IVAS will allow troops to “surpass the limits of human form and cognition, seamlessly teaming enhanced humans with large packs of robotic and biologic teammates.”

The Army has conducted IVAS-controlled drone flights for microdrones, such as the Black Hornet and other squad-level drones. The device is also used for inter- and intra-squad communication, both through voice and chat. Users can share map information, coordinates or other data via the headset.

In his blog post, Luckey said his involvement with IVAS signals his return to the forefront of technology. He maintains that the program is more than just a headset.

“IVAS isn’t just another product, it is a once-in-a-generation opportunity to redefine how technology supports those who serve,” Luckey wrote. “Whatever you are imagining, however crazy you imagine I am, multiply it by ten and then do it again. I am back, and I am only getting started.”

The Army has worked closely with Microsoft on IVAS since 2018. The current system was originally built on the commercially available Microsoft HoloLens device.

The service is working on the third of five prototypes of the device since the program began.

The current version, IVAS 1.2, is the second engineering validation build, Army Times previously reported. This version includes some design changes that must be implemented in the next prototype, as the service continues gathering troop feedback.

The following updates are in the works for IVAS 1.2:

• A low-light camera with increased sensitivity
• Improved low-light focus mechanism, especially when wearing gloves
• More robust bumpers, cables, bungees and tethered solar caps
• Hinge improvements for usability, display clarity and durability
• Improved transport case and mission bag for better storage and protection
• Minor visor and display improvements for greater clarity and durability
• Software improvements

This spring, soldiers with the 4th Infantry Division at Fort Carson, Colorado, will conduct a battalion-sized operational field assessment of the device. Following the development of its 1.2 version, the Army will be poised to award a production contract to build the device for full fielding.

Two recent postings under the U.S. Special Operations Command small business innovation research program seek solutions for those two issues among special operations forces.

A new sniper rifle for the Army, Marines and SOCOM

SOCOM wants a helmet mount that will work across various aviator helmets with “various night vision goggle systems,” including the AN/AVS-6 and Wide Field of View Aviation Goggles. The mount must also work within the Aviation Night Vision Imaging System mount currently used by special operations forces, according to the listing.

The portable oxygen device must not only hold oxygen but also generate it. The purpose, according to the posting, is to “improve oxygen therapy at point-of-need in an austere, pre-hospital environment.”

Operators need a rugged, compact instrument that can provide oxygen “as far-forward as possible” to cut down on the use of oxygen cylinders, according to the posting.

The Pentagon has focused in recent years on improving the delivery of medical aid in remote and austere locations across the services. Decades of ready medical services during the Global War on Terror allowed for rapid response to medical emergencies and theater evacuations for advanced medical care.

Most war game projects are showing higher casualties and less access to medical care in future conflict than in previous combat operations.

SOFWERX, a platform that conducts research and development for SOCOM, plans to hold a virtual Q&A session on the two initiatives on Feb. 18, according to the listing.

Beginning on April 29, 1975, Armed Forces Radio jarringly blasted the Christmas song throughout the bombarded city as increasingly panicked American and South Vietnamese clamored to reach the safety of the U.S. Embassy and its evacuating helicopters.

For two days helicopters landed on the embassy’s roof every 10 minutes, moving more than 7,000 people out of Saigon, with the American UH-1 “Huey” helicopter becoming the iconic symbol of the American evacuation of Vietnam.

Now, as the 50th anniversary of the fall of Saigon approaches, Apple TV+ has delivered a six-part series that offers up a personal, unparalleled look into the decades-long conflict.

Narrated by actor Ethan Hawke, “Vietnam: The War That Changed America,” pulls over 1,100 hours of archival footage that places the interviewees — journalists and soldiers alike — back into some of the war’s most consequential events.

Military Times spoke to Caroline Marsden, one of the producers of the series, who spoke candidly about the difficulties of taking on such an expansive project and the “moments where people, in the face of the awfulness of war, do these extraordinary things.”

Vietnam represents a fracture in American society and politics, giving way to something new entirely. How much of a challenge was it to piece together such a splintered narrative?

It was difficult in the sense that you have 10 years, right? So, at that point, it was America’s longest war, longest running war, and you have, for the first time — and last time, really — documentary crews and news crews given unparalleled access to go and film. It meant that for us we had an incredible amount of material to go through. So, in that sense it was difficult, but also what an amazing problem to have.

All that filming that went on also added to the feeling of, ‘Well, what do we want to focus on, really?’ But that became much clearer as soon as we started speaking with people. Most people were out there for a year for their tour of duty, so you could kind of, over the 10 years, just track this change in the war and the people who went through it.

You pulled over 1,100 hours of archival footage for this project. What was that like in juxtaposition to interviewing the men and women today?

That was amazing. How we approached it is that we’d look at footage and see if we could find people in the archive, which is very difficult. But it was also very surreal because you have these scenes with people fighting, they’re shooting over walls, someone shooting at them, and then they have microphones put in their face and they would say their name and that sort of thing. We could track them down sometimes.

I remember in Episode Six, we have one of the Marines who was the last one at the embassy during the fall of Saigon, and we had footage, tons of footage, of the embassy. We were just showing him that, and he was like, ‘Look, there’s me!’ We actually found him a few times, and he was very moved by it.

These are major things that happened to them, that they took part in. Seeing this footage was very moving for them. It was nice to be able to show that because you don’t always know how people are going to react. We always said to them, ‘We’re going to show you something only if you want.’ They always had the option not to look at it, because it can be triggering. But most of them, all of them, wanted to see it.

In Episode Four, we interviewed a man called Bill Boyles, and he talked about how he was at university, right? And he’s watching all the footage from Huế, and he sees exactly that — he says he sees this [American soldier] behind a wall shooting at the enemy and then someone puts a mic in his face, and he says something like ‘I just want to go home and go to school.’

Boyles talks about watching that on his TV, and then deciding in that moment, ‘Why should I be out of it? Why should I be allowed to be free of this when guys like him have to go and fight?’ So, he decides that he too will go out and he will fight.

We were able to find in the archives that exact TV clip. It was exciting to have found exactly what he had watched on TV.

You anchor many of the episodes around iconic moments many Americans will know. Are there specific stories that have stuck with you personally?

People are sort of more familiar with certain battles like Hamburger Hill, for example. But people won’t necessarily know what it meant. Our approach to that was to make it personal. In Episode Four we have a nurse who was at Hamburger Hill.

Her father fought in World War II, and she couldn’t stand the protests happening on college campuses. She really felt that they were looking down on the boys that she grew up with who were being drafted and sent out to Vietnam, and that these college students were sort of shirking their duty. And she’s so angry about it, she signs up.

She talks about going down to the draft board and saying, ‘I’m a nurse, and I want to go.’ They couldn’t sign her up fast enough. Initially she’s thrilled to be out there but then she gets there and she’s seeing injuries like she’s never seen before. She talks about this slow change in her view of the war and how Hamburger Hill is happening around that time. You have all these hill battles and men are coming in with unbelievable life-changing injuries. They’re sort of patching them up, sending them back out.

And then she’s sort of going, ‘Well, what did you do? We took a hill, right?’ Then a week later, a bunch of guys coming back in saying, ‘Oh, we’re fighting at this hill.’ And she’s going, ‘But you already took that hill.’

And they’re going, ‘Well, we lost it.’ And she’s thinking, ‘What is the point?’ Young men are being injured. They will never be the same. Lots of them are dying. So, we tell the story from that time in the war through her personal perspective.

From the beginning in the documentary you can see the shift between the men who are serving in 1965-66 to the end of the war. It’s a very different perspective.

Exactly. In the first episode, we’ve got [Col. (Ret.) Ramon] “Tony” Nadal and he’s fighting the North Vietnamese Army in what is almost a traditional battle, right? And then at the same time, we meet the Tunnel Rats, the guys who are discovering that there’s a whole other guerrilla force in the South sympathetic to the communists in the North.

This is a whole new, different type of warfare, different battle strategies. You’re hearing a first-person account of someone who’s a bit like, ‘Holy shit, I have to go in there.’

There have been connections made between the fall of Saigon and the US withdrawal from Afghanistan. After interviewing and viewing extensive archival film, would you consider that accurate?

I have yet to do a documentary about [Afghanistan], so I’ll have to get back to you on that! But on its face, it does seem to have the same sort of similarly wild scenes.

In the series, journalist Hilary Brown talks about how all the journalists are taking bets on how quickly this [fall] will happen. And, wow, it happened very quickly.

There are these sorts of wild escapes at the last minute, but also the sort of extraordinary decisions that were made at that time. I think those are one of the things we focus on in the series, these small shards of light — moments where people, in the face of the awfulness of war, do these extraordinary things.

I do think it’s worth clinging on to those moments as examples of what we can do as human beings.

“Vietnam: The War That Changed America” is available to stream on Apple TV+.

Maj. Gen. Artur Kępczyński was fired Jan. 9 for reasons that were not specified by Polish military officials, though numerous local reports suggested the missing explosives were — naturally — the catalyst for his dismissal.

In June 2024, a train carrying more than 1,000 tons of explosives was improperly unloaded by Polish troops, the report said, who mistakenly left the anti-tank mines to continue their rail-bound journey around the country until they were eventually offloaded in the furniture behemoth’s warehouse.

Kępczyński, meanwhile, reportedly kept the mishap from his superiors while furnishing subsequent supply reports that featured false numbers.

That approach appeared to have worked — at least until an Ikea warehouse representative telephoned military officials and inquired about “when they would collect their mines,” according to one report.

The Polish defense ministry posted on X confirming the dismissal of Kępczynski, who was reportedly a lead figure in the service’s logistics support element. An investigation into the incident is ongoing, the report said.

Though the story is indeed eccentric, Ikea, which was once exposed for using horse meat in over a dozen countries to craft their delectable Swedish meatballs, is no stranger to outlandish episodes. The furniture store’s cavernous confines, surpassed only by Moria when it comes to mine-hosting capacity, has playing host to all manner of stranger-than-fiction tales.

In 2012, for instance, a Japanese macaque monkey named Darwin escaped his Ontario-based owner’s crate and was later seen galavanting through an Ikea store wearing a sheepskin coat and diaper.

The following year, New Jersey-based couple Rashid Smith and Shirley Stewart were married in the same Ikea where they’d met eight years prior. It’s a Jersey thing.

And who could forget 12-year-old Peng Yijian of China, who in 2014 ran away and hid for six days in a Shanghai Ikea before he was found by local police.

Classic Peng.

Whether Kępczyński will face further punishment remains to be seen, though the sheer humiliation of the ordeal may offer retribution enough.

It is, after all, an incident come to life out of every veteran’s nightmares, those unique post-service cerebral ticks that yield “Here I am deployed to combat, but I’ve forgotten my rifle” terrors.

Her schedule had her meeting the Air Force Thunderbirds demonstration team and then a collection of military generals before shifting to a more conventional Miss America crowd-greeting public appearance at the race.

Marsh, 23, who will complete her year as the first active-duty Miss America in January, said she realized a level-setting conversation was in order as she scrambled to conform to wildly different appearance standards in rapid succession.

“Obviously, the Miss America people, they don’t know Air Force uniform standards, so no one knows, ‘Oh wait, you can’t wear lashes and a long giant ponytail and red lipstick and eyeshadow in uniform,’” Marsh said. “And it’s like, no I can’t do both of those at once.”

Eyelashes aside, Marsh, a 2023 U.S. Air Force Academy graduate and Truman Scholar whose next plans involve a study program at Harvard, found a mutually beneficial way to serve out her dual identity in 2024. In conversations that began when she was crowned Miss Colorado in May 2023, she began to plan out with her chain of command how it might be feasible and practical to serve out a potential Miss America role while on active duty.

“I know a lot of people from all across the country, on many different bases, had to pour in a lot of time after I had won,” she said, “figuring out the legal logistics of what this is actually going to look like and trying to look at some of the Air Force memos and how we can really make this work.”

Ultimately, the Air Force moved her into a highly customized public affairs position, building off her existing slate of public engagements for Miss America to conduct outreach for the service and generate awareness and interest in joining the military.

Since she won the title in January, Marsh said, she’s participated in 106 Air Force-related public engagements involving conversations with students, parents and other “influencers” to promote military service.

“We’ve really found an amazing way to overlap both of these jobs to make sure that we’re still hitting the standard and reaching the people in the environment that we want to reach,” she said.

Marsh’s grueling travel schedule hasn’t allowed for many conventional military activities and experiences in what is essentially her first active-duty role. Marsh’s time spent on base at her home station, Joint Base San Antonio-Randolph, Texas, she said, has largely consisted of mandatory activities, including drug testing, medical appointments, meetings with commanding officers and performance reviews.

Occasionally, she said, she’s gotten recognized by other service members while running errands in utilities and a ballcap. While she enjoys making the connections, she said, it’s also a little stressful given the appearance standards and requirements for Miss America.

“Even last week, I was doing my outprocessing for my base and showed up to work with no makeup,” she said. “And one of the people who worked at the front was like, ‘Oh, we’ve got to get the major.’”

Even sans makeup, she said, she agreed to a group photo with the office staff.

“Everyone always has the opportunity to do small things for other people and make their day,” Marsh said. “So, that’s been cool, to give people joy like that this year.”

Even apart from her top title in one of the nation’s most prestigious pageant competitions, Marsh’s achievements and aspirations demonstrate her fearlessness.

She’s had internships with prestigious organizations such as NASA; became an activist for pancreatic cancer research at age 17 following the death of her mother from the disease; has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do; and possesses a pilot’s license, which seeded her initial ambition to fly for the Air Force.

Marsh told Military Times her experience in military training should be an encouragement to young women who fear they couldn’t hack it in uniform or at war.

Polling data made public by the Defense Department in December showed that just one in four women aged 16 to 21 believe they could make it through boot camp, and just 8% believe they have what it takes to fight in a war.

“When I entered basic [training] I was 17 years old. I was on the cheer team in high school. I was very scrawny … maybe 110 pounds,” Marsh said. “I worked very hard the year before I went into basic to make sure I was going to go above and beyond the standards that were going to be expected of me, and also having the mental resilience to keep going when you fail. I think that willingness to learn is going to carry people so much farther, and also not closing yourself off from opportunities.”

Reflecting on her experiences as a Truman Scholar and her upcoming studies at the Harvard Kennedy School, Marsh noted, “I never would have gotten that if I would have counted myself out before I even showed up to basic.”

After Marsh hands off her crown, she’s headed to Hanscom Air Base, Massachusetts, where she’ll complete her final year-plus of studies to earn a master’s of public policy from Harvard under the Air Force Institute of Technology’s Civilian Institutions program.

With her fiance also in the Air Force, Marsh said she plans to continue to serve, though she’s not fully certain how long she’ll be in or what military career she’ll pursue. While she initially joined through a desire to be a pilot, Marsh said she has ruled out a return to flight training, adding that she wants to find a service job that she’s “fully passionate about.”

“The Air Force has treated me extremely well so far,” she said. “So, I can only imagine what other opportunities are going to be in store.”

These separations happen because of deployments and a variety of factors related to the military lifestyle. For some families, rising consumer costs can also make it harder to buy their child a toy or put the long-anticipated traditional holiday meal on the table this holiday season.

Many military families are among those helpers, often stepping in to bring some holiday spirit to others in their community, whether it’s inviting single service members over for a meal or gathering other military families together. They often volunteer in various ways during the holidays to help others, too.

Here are just a few examples of holiday happenings in military communities around the world.

Holiday meals for the troops

Some 107,948 pounds of beef, 54,261 pounds of ham, 29,344 pounds of shrimp and 11, 648 containers of eggnog are included in holiday feasts sent to troops around the world, whether they’ll be eating in dining halls, aboard ships or in remote areas. The Defense Logistics Agency’s Troop Support command begins planning for the feast in the spring, receiving orders from commands and working with vendors to get the feast in the works. Other items include:

• 130,929 pounds of turkey, including whole and roasted turkeys
• 5,521 cans of sweet potatoes
• 42,934 pies and cakes

Holidays around the globe

Holiday parties have been offering up entertainment and goodies for military families in many locations.

The Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego mascot, Lance Cpl. Bruno, met up with the Grinch as part of the entertainment at the depot’s annual holiday family event, with crafts, music and more.

Santa visited with families of the 148th Fighter Wing at Minnesota Air National Guard gathered near an F-16 Fighting Falcon on Dec. 13 at a kids’ holiday party.

And the USO holiday tour brought actor and singer Charles Esten to Naval Support Activity Naples, Italy, where he performed Dec. 12. Many of the more than 250 USO locations participate in holiday events for troops and families.

Meanwhile, giveaways and charity events help military families stretch their dollars. Various organizations have held toy drives for military families around the world, including the nonprofit Operation Homefront. Its annual toy drive is designed to relieve financial stress for junior and mid-grade enlisted families E-1 to E-6. Toys and holiday meal kits are distributed at various events. The toys are delivered by field staff and volunteers across the country and reach tens of thousands of military families each year.

The nonprofit Soldiers’ Angels’ Adopt-A-Family program has connected donors to “adopt” 1,893 military and veteran families as of Monday, including 5,219 children, to support them with presents and grocery gift cards. But there are still 343 families with a combined 1,106 children who are waiting to be adopted, according to Soldiers’ Angels spokeswoman Michelle Julazadeh Chavarin.

This season, Army Emergency Relief provided $100 military commissary gift cards to 900 Army families between Thanksgiving and Christmas at a number of installations in the U.S. and overseas. Some commissaries opened their doors early so the gift card recipients could shop early.

The Gary Sinise Foundation brought more than 700 military families of the fallen for the Snowball Express Healing Retreat from Dec. 7-11 at Walt Disney World Resort in Orlando, Florida. More than 1,700 family members came from 90 cities around the country and overseas.

The Armed Services YMCA, which provides a number of programs and services for junior enlisted families around the holidays and throughout the year, partnered with Jack Daniel’s Distillery in Operation Ride Home to help junior enlisted and their families travel home for the holidays. Since the program’s inception in 2011, it’s helped more than 14,000 people travel home.

Many single service members aren’t able to go home for the holidays, and some communities make sure they’re not forgotten. For example, earlier this month, the spouses’ club at Travis Air Force Base, California, along with community partners, organized the assembly of over 850 gift jars to be delivered to airmen living in the dormitories in a mission dubbed Holiday Dorm Drop.

Through Soldiers’ Angels, 41,052 donated holiday stockings stuffed with various goodies are sent to deployed service members, hospitalized veterans and National Guard and Reserve members around the country.

Giving back

Many troops and family members also give back to their military community and local civilian community. This might be through the Marine Corps Toys for Tots program or various toy drives and other events.

Some are steeped in tradition and long-standing relationships. For example, senior leaders and staff from Eighth Army visited the children of Namsan-won Orphanage in Seoul, South Korea, on Dec. 13, continuing the tradition of delivering Christmas gifts to children in the orphanage’s care.

The orphanage was built by soldiers from Eighth Army and the Republic of Korea Army during the Korean War as a sanctuary for children of Korean soldiers and policemen who died during the war. The Eighth Army has continued to support the orphanage, which continues to house and care for 33 children.

Each year, at least 100,000 kids call into the North American Aerospace Defense Command to inquire about Santa’s location. Millions more follow online in nine languages, from English to Japanese.

On any other night, NORAD is scanning the heavens for potential threats, such as last year’s Chinese spy balloon. But on Christmas Eve, volunteers in Colorado Springs are fielding questions like, “When is Santa coming to my house?” and, “Am I on the naughty or nice list?”

“There are screams and giggles and laughter,” said Bob Sommers, 63, a civilian contractor and NORAD volunteer.

Sommers often says on the call that everyone must be asleep before Santa arrives, prompting parents to say, “Do you hear what he said? We got to go to bed early.”

NORAD’s annual tracking of Santa has endured since the Cold War, predating ugly sweater parties and Mariah Carey classics. Here’s how it began and why the phones keep ringing.

The origin story is Hollywood-esque

It started with a child’s accidental phone call in 1955. The Colorado Springs newspaper printed a Sears advertisement that encouraged children to call Santa, listing a phone number.

A boy called. But he reached the Continental Air Defense Command, now NORAD, a joint U.S. and Canadian effort to spot potential enemy attacks. Tensions were growing with the Soviet Union, along with anxieties about nuclear war.

Air Force Col. Harry W. Shoup picked up an emergency-only “red phone” and was greeted by a tiny voice that began to recite a Christmas wish list.

“He went on a little bit, and he takes a breath, then says, ‘Hey, you’re not Santa,’” Shoup told The Associated Press in 1999.

Realizing an explanation would be lost on the youngster, Shoup summoned a deep, jolly voice and replied, “Ho, ho, ho! Yes, I am Santa Claus. Have you been a good boy?”

Shoup said he learned from the boy’s mother that Sears mistakenly printed the top-secret number. He hung up, but the phone soon rang again with a young girl reciting her Christmas list. Fifty calls a day followed, he said.

In the pre-digital age, the agency used a 60-by-80 foot plexiglass map of North America to track unidentified objects. A staff member jokingly drew Santa and his sleigh over the North Pole.

The tradition was born.

“Note to the kiddies,” began an AP story from Colorado Springs on Dec. 23, 1955. “Santa Claus Friday was assured safe passage into the United States by the Continental Air Defense Command.”

In a likely reference to the Soviets, the article noted that Santa was guarded against possible attack from “those who do not believe in Christmas.”

Is the origin story humbug?

Some grinchy journalists have nitpicked Shoup’s story, questioning whether a misprint or a misdial prompted the boy’s call.

In 2014, tech news site Gizmodo cited an International News Service story from Dec. 1, 1955, about a child’s call to Shoup. Published in the Pasadena Independent, the article said the child reversed two digits in the Sears number.

“When a childish voice asked COC commander Col. Harry Shoup, if there was a Santa Claus at the North Pole, he answered much more roughly than he should — considering the season:

‘There may be a guy called Santa Claus at the North Pole, but he’s not the one I worry about coming from that direction,’” Shoup said in the brief piece.

In 2015, The Atlantic magazine doubted the flood of calls to the secret line, while noting that Shoup had a flair for public relations.

Phone calls aside, Shoup was indeed media savvy. In 1986, he told the Scripps Howard News Service that he recognized an opportunity when a staff member drew Santa on the glass map in 1955.

A lieutenant colonel promised to have it erased. But Shoup said, “You leave it right there,” and summoned public affairs. Shoup wanted to boost morale for the troops and public alike.

“Why, it made the military look good — like we’re not all a bunch of snobs who don’t care about Santa Claus,” he said.

Shoup died in 2009. His children told the StoryCorps podcast in 2014 that it was a misprinted Sears ad that prompted the phone calls.

“And later in life he got letters from all over the world,” said Terri Van Keuren, a daughter. “People saying ‘Thank you, Colonel, for having, you know, this sense of humor.’”

A rare addition to Santa’s story

NORAD’s tradition is one of the few modern additions to the centuries-old Santa story that have endured, according to Gerry Bowler, a Canadian historian who spoke to the AP in 2010.

Ad campaigns or movies try to “kidnap” Santa for commercial purposes, said Bowler, who wrote “Santa Claus: A Biography.” NORAD, by contrast, takes an essential element of Santa’s story and views it through a technological lens.

In a recent interview with the AP, Air Force Lt. Gen. Case Cunningham explained that NORAD radars in Alaska and Canada — known as the northern warning system — are the first to detect Santa.

He leaves the North Pole and typically heads for the international dateline in the Pacific Ocean. From there he moves west, following the night.

“That’s when the satellite systems we use to track and identify targets of interest every single day start to kick in,” Cunningham said. “A probably little-known fact is that Rudolph’s nose that glows red emanates a lot of heat. And so those satellites track (Santa) through that heat source.”

NORAD has an app and website, www.noradsanta.org, that will track Santa on Christmas Eve from 4 a.m. to midnight, Mountain Standard Time. People can call 1-877-HI-NORAD to ask live operators about Santa’s location from 6 a.m. to midnight, mountain time.

Tom Cruise was awarded the U.S. Navy’s top civilian honor Tuesday for “outstanding contributions to the Navy and the Marine Corps” with “Top Gun” and other films.

Cruise, who has been working in the U.K., was given the Distinguished Public Service Award by U.S. Navy Secretary Carlos Del Toro in a ceremony at Longcross Studios near London.

A third ‘Top Gun’ movie is in the works

The 62-year-old actor said he was proud to receive the “extraordinary acknowledgement,” which came with a medal and a certificate.

“I admire all of the servicemen and women,” Cruise said. “I know in life, something that is very true to me, is that is to lead is to serve. And I know that to my core. And I see that in the servicemen and women.”

The Navy said Cruise had “increased public awareness and appreciation for our highly trained personnel and the sacrifices they make while in uniform.”

“Top Gun,” the 1986 smash hit about Cold War flying aces, made Cruise a star and drove a spike in military enlistment. The Navy even set up recruitment tables in theaters.

Interest was renewed with the 2022 sequel “Top Gun: Maverick,” in which Cruise’s character mentored a new generation of elite aviators.

The Navy said the sequel “brought nostalgia to older audiences and reinvigorated the minds of newer audience members, which effectively targeted a younger audience’s interest into the skill sets and opportunities the Navy can provide.”

Cruise was also commended for his roles in “Born on the Fourth of July,” “A Few Good Men” and the “Mission: Impossible” movies.

Cruise’s next on-screen adventure, “Mission: Impossible: The Final Reckoning,” is due for release in May 2025.

Set in 2006, the film “embeds audiences with a platoon of American Navy SEALs in the home of an Iraqi family, [observing] the movement of U.S. forces through insurgent territory,” according to the synopsis.

But when enemy activity erupts, the team’s mission becomes a fight to stay alive. The movie, which A24 says follows the SEALs in real time as they fight their way out of a hornet’s nest, “is based on the memory of the people who lived it.”

Mendoza, who worked as Garland’s military adviser on “Civil War” and produced some of the more harrowing combat sequences ever portrayed in cinema, served in the military for 16 years and earned a Silver Star for his actions during the 2006 Battle of Ramadi, when, during a sniper overwatch mission, his position was attacked with a barrage of grenade and small arms fire from multiple enemy positions.

While it remains to be seen how closely the film will follow Mendoza’s experience during that engagement, the visceral nature of combat illustrated in “Warfare” feels like an inevitability, considering the recent Garland-Mendoza sample size in “Civil War.”

A24 has also developed a reputation for producing gritty movies, rolling out films like “Hereditary,” “Zone of Interest,” “Ex Machina,” “Heretic” and “Green Room,” among an expansive list.

If the combat sequences in the “Warfare” trailer are any indication, it’s sure to follow suit.

“Warfare” stars D’pharaoh Woon-A-Tai (“Reservation Dogs”), Will Poulter (“The Revenant,” “The Bear”), Cosmo Jarvis (“Shogun”) and Joseph Quinn (“Gladiator 2,” “Stranger Things”).

The film hits theaters in 2025. Watch the trailer below.

Per court documents, Sgt. 1st Class Crispin Antonio Abad, 42, was hit with an eight-count indictment — or, approximately one indictment per slice — by a federal grand jury after allegedly submitting two fraudulent PPP loan applications in April 2021, when he was on active duty at Fort Gregg-Adams, Virginia.

Paycheck Protection Program loans were distributed in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic to provide small businesses with necessary resources to preserve payroll and maintain staffing.

Leveraging what he reportedly claimed to be exactly $100,000 in GamGam’s pie-based revenue in 2020, Abad allegedly submitted a fabricated IRS tax return to the Small Business Administration to support the loan request, a process that netted him $41,000 in the end, according to the Justice Department.

Exceedingly detailed processing by the IRS, however, revealed that Abad never submitted the same falsified tax return to match the version received by the Small Business Administration, the Justice Department said. An investigation was subsequently launched.

Post-receipt of culinary-fueled $41,000, meanwhile, Abad allegedly embarked on a spending spree across the mid-Atlantic, paying for visits to the Fort Gregg-Adams Golf Course and West Virginia’s Ace Adventure Resort and withdrawing hundreds of dollars at an MGM Casino in National Harbor, Maryland. There were also alleged purchases at Sunglass Hut, Reeds Jeweler, Virginia ABC Store — a liquor store chain — and Victoria’s Secret.

Investigators also uncovered loan schemes run by two other active duty soldiers, Fort Gregg-Adams-based Maj. Eduwell Jenkins and Sgt. Malaysia Stubbs, who similarly obtained COVID-19 relief loans through fraudulent claims submitted to the Paycheck Protection Program.

Entering guilty pleas to defrauding the Small Business Administration of $20,000 each, Jenkins, 42, and Stubbs, 30, face maximum penalties of five years in prison. If found guilty, Abad faces a maximum sentence of 20 years behind bars.

The policy, enacted in 1957 for able-bodied males, has remained in effect while the nation continues what is technically a war with its neighbor to the north.

But for one man, exemption loopholes in the able-bodied requirements were taken to heart — and midsection — after he reportedly embarked on a multiyear binge-eating bonanza, gaining more than 44 pounds in an attempt to evade assignments traditionally reserved for one less corpulent.

And it worked, sort of.

Instead of immediate military service, the 26-year-old nearly joined the ranks of prison inmates after the Seoul Eastern District Court sentenced him to a suspended one-year term for violating the country’s service requirements.

The 5′6″ individual, who reportedly weighed 183 pounds during a 2017 physical examination, doubled his eating regimen at the behest of a friend, who advised the calorie crusader that he could instead fulfill his conscription duties in a relaxed civilian role, such as working at a community service center.

The portly plot was a go, with the man going as far as quitting his job as a delivery worker, according to the court, simply unwilling to sacrifice precious calories to the arduousness of moving one’s body.

In 2023, the man underwent another physical exam, reportedly after chugging water to tip the literal scales even more in his favor. He weighed in at just over 230 pounds.

(It’s worth noting that a strict diet of MREs could have netted these gains in one or two months instead of six years.)

The report did not specify how the individual was caught.

Military conscription, meanwhile, remains a hot-button topic in South Korea, where service often puts an unwelcome pause on professional or academic pursuits.

South Korea’s Military Manpower Administration reports an annual average of 50 to 60 cases of military exemptions or blatant dodging of military service.

Few, however, are exempt if fit to serve. All seven members of the wildly popular K-pop supergroup BTS, for instance, have donned their nation’s uniform, with the last members of the group slated to finish serving in June 2025.

The court overseeing the binge-eating case noted that the culprit vowed to fulfill his service.

For his advisory role in the scheme, the friend, also 26, similarly received a suspended one-year sentence.

The Associated Press contributed to this report.

It is a foul beast lurking in the shadows, never tiring, ever vigilant, with craned neck vigorously leaning to hear the magic word that unleashes his sinister powers: “Deployment.”

The malefactor’s skulduggery has claimed divisions’ worth of saddened spouses, boyfriends and girlfriends as victims, forever helpless to the patron saint of chicanery.

Its influence even dates back to King David’s lustful pursuit of Bathsheba. (Pour one out for Uriah.) In fact, so pervasive a foe is the devious one that he became the subject of a 1943, WWII-themed Superman comic, one that was long-buried in the archives of Washington’s Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

Much like the deployed troops serving in that comic, GIs based in India during World War II faced incessant Jody-based threats, so much so that, in a truly band-of-brothers moment, the jilted men turned their heartbreak into something meaningful.

Enter The Brush-Off Club. (A self-help book could never.)

The motivated Marine Corps origin of the ‘distracted boyfriend’ meme, 'rah?

According to the Jan. 24, 1943, issue of Yank, The Army Weekly, mournful hearts organized for the first time in military history to join forces in mutual lovers’ sorrow and sympathy.

The rules to join the club were fairly straightforward — if you were in possession of a broken heart “or a reasonable facsimile,” you were in.

The misery-loves-company cadre even featured vital, board-style functions, such as chief crier and chief consoler, according to Sgt. Ed Cunningham, field correspondent for Yank.

All members were “required to give each other the needle; i.e., full sympathy for all active members,” Cunningham continued.

“By-laws state: As we are all in the ‘same transport,’ we must provide willing shoulders to cry upon, and join fervently in all wailing and weeping.”

1943 Superman comic pits the Man of Steel against the military’s arch nemesis: Jody

For those nursing a heartbreak there was a small consolation. Namely, the more serious the offense — say, one’s fiancée marrying another — the faster one could rise through the ranks. For those most dreadfully scorned, there illuminated a path to Brush-Off presidency.

Members were further encouraged to practice wellness methods, such as turning frowns upside down, sipping beer and wailing at the moon for a brief time before moving on.

So it is written, so it shall be done.

This story was originally published on HistoryNet.com.