When the Devil Dances

“Major,” said Gunny Pappas with a straight face. “Lieutenant Sunday is out here and would like a minute of your time.”

“Come on in, Sunday,” O’Neal called.

Sunday marched in, came to the position of attention, and saluted. “Sir. Captain Slight has requested that I obtain some undergel replacement! I am given to understand that you have the last available can in the battalion!”

Mike leaned back, returned the salute languidly and tapped the ash off the end of his cigar. “Running low, huh? And, as a matter of fact, I sent the can over to Charlie Company. But I hear they used it up. You can go over to Charlie and ask them if there’s any left or you can try to scrounge some up on your own. Your call.”

“Yes, sir,” Sunday said, saluting again. “Permission to continue my search, sir!”

“Carry on, Sunday,” O’Neal said, with another languid wave. “And tell Slight that undergel doesn’t grow on trees.”

“Yes, sir!” the lieutenant said, spinning about and marching out the door.

O’Neal shook his head as Gunny Pappas came in the door with his hand over his mouth.

“You’re sniggering, Gunny.”

“I am not,” the former marine answered. “I’m snickering. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t think this was a good idea,” O’Neal said, taking a puff of the cigar to keep it lit. “Sunday’s both smart and former service. I think Slight’s in over her head, frankly.”

“Maybe she is,” the sergeant major said with a shrug. “But this is an old and honorable tradition. What sort of unit would we be if we didn’t send the new L-T out on a quest for something that doesn’t exist?”

“I dunno,” Mike said with a smile. “One that doesn’t have a piper?”

* * *

Sunday stood outside the battalion headquarters, one hand on his hip and the other slowly rubbing his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face. He looked around the small cantonment area, searching for a gleam of inspiration until his eye was caught by a poster advertising the new Ground Forces Exchange. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment and then grinned.

Whistling, he strode down the road towards main post, saluting the occasional passing troop. Any of them that looked at his face, looked away almost immediately; that was not the sort of expression you wanted to see on a person approximately the size of a bulldozer.

* * *

Maggie Findley was a short, petite brunette, seventeen years old and in another year, if she was still alive, would graduate from Central High School (“Home of the Dragons!”). She had applied for the job at the Ground Forces Exchange for two reasons; it was a job and jobs were scarce these days and, all things being equal it might be a good way to meet a nice guy.

This was her first shift all alone on the register and, so far, it had been a quiet Saturday morning. A rather large soldier had entered not too long before and headed to the back but, really, they were generally nice guys.

When she saw him headed back to the front she was momentarily a little nervous; he was not just large he was enormous. But after a moment she noticed the silver bars of a first lieutenant and stopped worrying; officers were gentlemen after all. So it was in this pleasant state of mind that she blushed bright red when the lieutenant set down the small box he had been carrying.

* * *

Tommy smiled at the young lady behind the counter, whose nametag read “Findley.” “Would you happen to have any more of this in the back? There were only a few boxes stocked on the shelf.”

“Uh,” she looked from the box to the officer and blushed again. “You… need more?” she squeaked.

“Actually, if you have an unopened case that would be perfect,” he said with an unintentionally feral grin. “My company commander and I are…” he made some vague hand gestures, ”… having some difficulty.”

“I’ll-go-right-now,” Maggie said quickly and darted around the counter towards the back.

Tommy stood at the counter, aimlessly whistling through his teeth for a moment, then picked up a copy of Guns and Ammo, one of the few magazines to survive the collapse in publishing. He flipped through a couple of pages looking at the new Desert Eagle .65 design. He, personally, thought that anyone smaller than him would be as likely to knock themselves out as be able to fire the damned thing. But some people just had to have the biggest gun on the block.

The clerk came back from the bag carrying, as surreptitiously as possible, a small blue-and-white box. “We… only have it in the brand name…”

“That’s fine,” Tommy said, putting the magazine away and pulling out his wallet. “Perfect, actually.”

“Will that be paper or plastic?” Maggie asked breathlessly, trying not to meet his eye.

“Oh, paper, by all means,” Tommy said with a feral grin. “Please.”

* * *

“Sergeant Bogdanovich?” Lieutenant Sunday said hesitantly, stepping through the first sergeant’s door. “Could you join me for a moment?”

“Certainly, sir,” Boggle said, getting up. She nodded at the package. “Is that the undergel?”