Roberts woke up, slightly confused as to where he was. It took him a moment to remember the day before and how he'd been hijacked from a normal posting for an Ammunition Specialist and ended up in some clandestine unit.

Part of him was excited that he was part of something clandestine, almost like his father, who had been in Special Forces in Vietnam.

Then he saw his room-mate sitting in the dim light reading a military manual with his glasses and eye-patch on.

Oh, yeah. You, Roberts thought bitterly to himself.

Patch didn't seem aware of Roberts watching him as he tapped his ashes into an ashtray then took a drink of an orange soda. When he set down the soda can he put the cigarette back between his lips and turned the page on the manual.

MILITARY OPERATIONS IN URBAN TERRAIN
COUNTERING THE SOVIET THREAT
LESSONS LEARNED: 1952-1986
(RESTRICTED)

Roberts laid there, watching him, privately wondering who the big guy thought he was fooling since he kept looking in the back, obviously to find out the meaning of a term, then flipping back and forth like he had lost his place.

"You might as well go piss," Patch said without looking up from the manual. "I'm going to be reading this till lunch," He reached out, without looking, and hit power on the stereo. "Hit the lights while you're at it."

Roberts got up, feeling even more irritated when Patch threw him a towel without looking.

"Since you're all modest and shit," Patch said.

Roberts wrapped the towel around his waist then flipped on the light. Patch got up as Roberts fumbled open his wall locker. He'd used his only two locks on the upper locker and the one he'd used his TA-50 to replace the beer. Roberts got out a change of clothes, shut his locker, and went into the bathroom. He showered quickly, getting dressed, and coming back into the room.

"Don't forget you have to wipe down the sink, chrome, mirror, and shower once the condensation evaporates," Patch asked without looking up. He was making drawings on a piece of typewriter paper with a ruler and a French curve.

"Huh?" Roberts looked at the steam filled bathroom. "Why?"

"The bathroom. Are you going to leave it a mess or wipe down the shower, sink, mirror, and chrome?" Patch asked, setting down the mechanical pencil and the ruler, turning to look at Roberts. He shook his head at Roberts' defiant expression and sighed. "No, of course not, you're just going to leave it a mess."

"Hey, how was I supposed to know?" Roberts protested.

Patch lit another cigarette. "Look, I know we're getting off on the wrong foot every time we talk to each other, but I keep this room in top shape. I always have. If you want to live in a pig-sty, I'll just get you reassigned," His face hardened. "You got PFC for excellent performance in Basic and AIT, that's why Shaft assigned you to my room. Is it going to be a problem?"

Roberts shook his head, suddenly intimidated by the younger man.

"Tell you what, as soon as it's ready, I'll do the spot-cleaning on the bathroom, you can just watch and get an idea of it. It takes about five or ten minutes, that's all," Patch said. He tapped the paper. "I want to finish this by lunch."

"What are you doing?" Roberts asked.

Patch lifted up the manual. "TRADOC and FORCOM put together a precis on urban warfare changes from the Korean War till that cluster-fuck in Grenada where some Marines got pinned down and couldn't maneuver," he laid the manual back down. "The manual compares doctrine, training, and school of thought through the last three decades."

Roberts frowned, wondering why an E-5 would be looking over that kind of manual. Patch had already turned back to the manual, picking it up.

"Unlike the other copy, this one has changes in our NATO allies' doctrine. I'm going through it to see what it means for someone like me," He tapped a list. "Like right here. France and Norway no longer allow the use of incendiary weapons inside an urban environment."

Roberts frowned, wondering why the other man would even care.

Patch looked at him for a moment and sighed. "I'm an NBC Field Warfare Specialist," He said, as if that explained everything. When he saw that Roberts had no idea why that matter he sighed again. "I may be tasked to use a flamethrower to dispose of dead bodies or clear a biohazard. I need to know which nations I can count on for support. The Group Operations OIC wants me to come up with a list of which nations won't be able to support Special Weapons tasks, and which ones can partially support us."

"Oh," Roberts said, quickly losing interest.

Roberts turned away, walking over to his dresser where he'd just dumped most of his personal effects. He pulled it open, looking down into it. Roberts got a chair and sat down in front of the drawer, sorting out his stuff. Twice Patch got up and went to the shelf, grabbing different manuals, and went back to his seat.

"Phew, done," Patch said, getting up and stretching. His right shoulder made a wet sounding pop. He put away the manuals, sorted and stacked the papers, put them in a manila folder, and turned around. "Hey, Roberts, you want anything from the soda machine?"

Roberts shook his head, staring into the drawer.

"I'm buying," Patch said.

"No," Roberts said.

"Suit yourself, man," Patch said, clunking off.

Roberts looked at the clock as soon as the other man had left. Only eleven-hundred hours on his first Saturday in the barracks and apparently his NCO room-mate was working. Roberts shook his head, slightly irritated.

He didn't really like country-music, and the stereo playing it just increased his irritation. It just went along with the other man, who had annoyed Roberts from the minute the other man had showed up and grabbed him when he'd already been assigned a unit.

When Patch came back Roberts was sitting on his bed, reading a book he'd gotten at the USO in the airport. Patch looked him over, shrugged, then turned on his computer, opening a locked wall locker and pulling out a box of big 5.25" floppy disks.

Roberts deliberately ignored the other man for a while. He watched as Patch got two books, going through them as he typed slowly. Roberts wanted to snicker at the fact that Patch was a hunt-and-pecker on the keyboard.

"Aaaand, go time," Patch suddenly said. Roberts looked over in time to see him give a flourish with one hand before hitting a key. Patch leaned forward, staring at the screen. "Come on, baby, come on..."

The computer beeped and Patch exhaled in frustration, staring at the words on the screen.

Roberts wondered what game he was playing and went back to his book.

"Fuck. Variable mis-match," Patch muttered. "Dammit."

The only sound was the clicking of the brass clock, the keys on the keyboard, and rain against the window for a long moment.

"Aaaand, go!" Patch suddenly said, startling Roberts, who glared at the other man's back.

The computer beeped and Roberts waited for Patch to complain again. Instead the other man typed some more, got up, and pulled one of the hardback books with demonic and Satanic imagery on it from the shelf, then sat down.

"Let's see... fifth level thief, dwarf, randomize heroic stats, and..." Patch said. He looked at the book, then at the screen. "Looks legit."

Roberts felt like speaking up, telling the other man he wasn't comfortable with the Satanic imagery on the book he was holding. He'd heard all about how Dungeons and Dragons made people kill themselves and think they could cast spells and summon demons.

"Finally," Patch snapped the book shut and leaned back in the chair, picking up his cigarettes before glancing at the clock. "About time I got that working. That'll help a little."

Roberts wondered why he needed a computer for whatever that book let him do.

"I've been writing a program for about three years to help me Dee-Em," Patch suddenly said. "I can hear you thinking all the way over here. And no, I'm not a Satan worshipper, I don't think I can cast spells, and I don't try to summon demons."

"I, I didn't..." Roberts stammered lamely, flushing at the fact that Patch seemed to be able to read his thoughts.

"I've seen that look on your face every time I pick up a manual countless times before, Roberts," Patch said, limping back across the room and putting the book away. "I know what you're thinking because people always seem to think that."

He pointed at the Abba tape in Roberts's drawer. "They tell you heavy metal was Satanic too? That they had coded messages in reverse to convince kids to worship Satan?"

Roberts nodded dumbly, his blush getting deeper.

Patch limped back to the chair, leaning on it and grinning at Roberts. "I want you to think a moment," He said. Patch tapped the back of the chair, obviously gathering his thoughts. "Now, they traded their soul for... what?"

"Wealth and fame," Roberts said, crossing his arms and glaring at the younger man.

"All right. And they can subliminally convince listeners to do things, correct?"

"Right. They use that to convince kids to worship the Devil," Roberts said.

"Well, why not also put on there commands like 'buy our t-shirts' or 'go to our concerts' or 'send me five dollars to my house' if they can do that?" Patch asked.

"They have wealth. The Devil promised them," Roberts said, firm in his convictions.

"Abba probably made twice what Metallica has," Patch grinned. "I notice it's OK to listen to them. OK, so the Devil gives them fame and wealth, right?"

"Yes," Roberts said.

"All heavy metal and rock bands, right?"

"Yes," Roberts told him, getting irritated.

"Then why do half the fucking bands out there suck, have one hit, then just vanish back into obscurity? Why should the Devil empower more and more bands, why not just keep one at the top, make them bigger than the Beatles, bigger then Elvis, pull in more souls that way?" Patch asked. He shrugged. "Why not send succubus out into the world again. Most teenage boys would sign away their soul for a fucking handjob from a big-tittied chick. Conservation of motion, man, one of the basic laws of the universe."

Roberts glared at Patch, feeling offended at having his beliefs questioned.

"Look, if it's going to be that big of an issue, I'll just go down to the CQ Area, tell Sergeant Hooker that you need a new room-mate," Patch said. He crossed his arms, leaning against the desk. "This is my room, so you're the one who's going to be fucking moving, PFC."

Roberts stood up, staring at the other man. It was bad enough that he kept acting like an asshole, but Roberts didn't appreciate the other man mocking his beliefs. He clenched his fists and started to take a step forward, glaring hotly at the other man.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing, newbie, I advise you to take a second and think about it," Patch growled, his voice suddenly low and menacing. "Your career could come to a sudden end right here in this room."

Roberts glared at the other man, still angry over having his religious beliefs called into question.

Patch, however, was still talking. "I'm not talking about my rank. We're out of uniform. I'm talking, you come at me, you'll see the inside of the Dispensary," he growled.

Roberts was just about to step forward when a banging on the door broke the tension.

"Roberts! Hey, Roberts! You in there?" A voice yelled.

Patch turned toward the door. "It's open!"

The door opened, shut, and Chuck Newsome came into the room. He saw Patch leaning against the desk and pointed his index fingers at him, leaning back slightly. "Heyyy, Sergeant Stillwater. Morning."

Patch nodded, smiling slightly. "Morning, soldier."

Chuck swiveled, pointing at Roberts. "Heyyy, James, how's it hanging?"

"Fine," Roberts said, still eyeing Patch.

"You going to lunch soon?" Chuck asked, smiling. He'd always been laughing and joking in training, nothing ever seeming to bother him.

"I guess," Roberts said.

Chuck looked around the room. "Holy shit, this room is awesome," he pointed at the shadowboxes. "Are those pistols real?"

Patch nodded. "Yeah. Your bigger, more famous units, and the Marine Corps, they like to give out pistols in shadow boxes."

"Fuck yeah," Chuck grinned. He stepped forward. "Chuck Newsome."

"Tony Stillwater," Patch grunted, shaking the other man's head.

"I remember," Chuck grinned, oblivious to the tension in the room. "You're the one who picked us up then gave us the 'you're all going to die here because you're stupid' lecture."

Roberts scowled as Chuck laughed afterwards.

"My room-mate gave me the same lecture, only he kept adding in 'because you're a stupid fucking private' along the way," Chuck grinned. He looked at Roberts. "Sergeant Stillwater here give you the same lecture?"

Roberts shook his head.

"Already gave it in the office," Patch said.

"Holy shit, are those AD&D books?" Chuck said, half skipping forward to look at the shelves. "Holy shit, you've got, what, like everything ever fucking printed?"

"Pretty close," Patch said.

"Played the shit out of that game in High School," Chuck smiled, straightening up. "Love me some AD&D."

"My game's pretty full, but there's a couple of other people who play that might have room," Patch said.

Roberts didn't know whether or not to feel offended that he was being ignored.

"Hey, would you mind finding out if I can join one of those games?" Newsome asked, grinning. He pointed at the pack of cigarettes on the desk. "Hey, can I get a smoke? I'm out and I just found out that I missed the van to main post."

Patch grinned. "Got a few cartons in the fridge, go ahead and grab one, you can pay me back later."

"Heyyyy, thanks, Sergeant, you're the fucking best," Newsome said, moving over to the fridge.

"But, yeah, I'll see who's got room for a new player, let you know," Patch smiled.

"Hot damn, thanks, Sergeant," Chuck said, pulling a carton of Marlboros out of the fridge and tucking them under one arm. "Come on, James, we'll drop this by my room and go to lunch."

"Here," Patch handed Chuck a lit cigarette.

"Thanks, Sergeant, you're the best," Chuck said, motioning at Roberts. "Come on, let's go before someone else eats all the good food."

Roberts grabbed his jacket out of his wall locker, following Chuck into the hallway.

"So you're with Stillwater, huh?" Chuck said, blowing smoke at the ceiling. "Holy shit are you lucky."

Roberts frowned. "Why? The guy's a total asshole."

"He didn't seem that bad. I hear he's a little weird, but everyone lets it slide," Chuck laughed, stopping and opening the door to his room halfway between Roberts's room and the end of the hallway. "I hear he's a bad mother fucker. Him and his big brother both."

An Asian guy sat at the desk, reading a book and tapping a pencil on the top of the desk. When the two men entered he looked up.

"He's an asshole," Roberts repeated, following Chuck into the room.

"You're rooming with Stillwater, aren't you?" The Asian guy asked. Chuck was surprised by the Texas accent, and didn't realize the surprise had shown on his face until the Asian guy shook his head. "Holy shit, newbie, fucking racist much?"

"Uh, I, er," Roberts started.

"Me so solly," The Asian guy suddenly said, reaching up to pull at the corners of his eyes. "Me washy washy shirt. Me serve up flied lice."

Chuck busted up laughing, leaving Roberts standing there unsure what to do.

"Don't give James here such a hard time, Aaron," Chuck laughed.

Aaron just waved, turning back to whatever he was reading.

"Don't mind Aaron, he thinks he's funny," Chuck said, tearing open the carton of cigarettes. He put one in his pocket, then put the rest of the carton in the fridge.

"Pfft, you're just jealous of my suavely slanted eyes," Aaron said, turning the page on his book. "Suave slanty eyes slicken all the slut's slits."

"Say that shit five times fast," Chuck laughed. He turned to James. "Come on, dude, lighten up."

"Me and Stillwater don't get along, that's all," Roberts said. He pointedly glanced at Aaron.

"Pfft, Aaron isn't going to run and go tattle, dude. Jeez, you're all wound up," Chuck said. He went over and jumped onto the single bed, leaning back. "You see the sign up sheet?"

Roberts frowned. "What sign-up sheet?"

"Fulda's doing another round of Air Assault," Aaron said, not looking up from his book. "Fifty-five BB stackers and Field Warfare have priority."

"I already signed up. Second name on the list, first bb-stacker, man," Chuck grinned.

"It's over-rated," Aaron said, still not looking up. "I'm waiting for the next Master Fitness opening."

Roberts frowned. "What's that?"

Aaron set down his book, sighing dramatically. "It's a course where you learn nutrition, proper exercise, how to train your fellow troops to pass physical fitness tests, how to eat right, all that good stuff. We're supposed to be getting ten slots and I want one. Gotta have at least a two-sixty-five on your PT score and I've got that and then some."

"Oh," Roberts said.

"Plus it's worth fifteen promotion points," Aaron added. "I missed the cutoff for E-5 this month by eight points. I'm so close I can fucking taste it and the points have been stuck at 998 for a year now."

"Aaron's in Second Magazine Platoon," Chuck offered.

Aaron nodded. "Yeah, I work out at Titan, we've got two bunkers of VX, no big deal."

"I'm in Second Squad, Third Magazine Platoon," Chuck grinned. "Sergeant Bomber. He came by this morning to tell me that everyone else would be heading to the site on Monday and to wish me luck during inprocessing. He seems pretty cool."

"Lucky you," Roberts said. "Stillwater's an asshole."

Aaron laughed at that. "Yeah, yeah he is. Great fucking guy though."

Roberts glared. "How so?"

Aaron sobered up, staring at Roberts for a long moment. "He lost use of his eye getting people out of the barracks when it lost power and heat after the Rear-D OIC lost his shit and started executing people for being Russian agents. I've seen him pull people out of a burning vehicle. His girlfriend miscarried their baby and they split up over it but he's never bad-mouthed her, not once. Not even when she married someone else. He's an asshole, but he's the right kind of asshole."

Roberts flushed and looked away.

"Don't act like that, James," Chuck Newsome laughed. "What happened to 'I'm gonna do 20 years, nothing's gonna get to me' you always say. I met him, he doesn't seem that bad."

Yeah, you don't have to live with him, Roberts thought to himself.

"Oh, God, you fucked with those stuffed rabbits, didn't you?" Aaron suddenly said. "Then he threatened to rip your head off and shit down your neck, didn't he?"

Roberts nodded, feeling the cold burn of humiliation that Aaron knew.

"One rabbit for each of the times he's been hospitalized," Aaron said. "Gifts from people, some of them are dead now."

Roberts opened his mouth to say 'how was I supposed to know' when Chuck broke in, shaking his head, all traces of humor gone.

"Dude, don't mess with other people's shit. Goddamn, it's so obvious you were an only child," Chuck said.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" Roberts asked.

"First lesson a sibling teaches you," Aaron grinned.

"Touch my stuff I'll break your face," Chuck's grin was identical to his room-mates'.

"He also got all pissy over a night-light," Roberts tried.

Chuck nodded. "Aaron told me the same thing. Lets you see if there's ice or frost on the floor, let's you grab your stuff without waking up your room-mate, and will be your only light to see by in your room if the power fails."

"He didn't say that," Roberts said. Aaron had gone back to reading his book.

Chuck laughed. "Jesus Christ, Honor Grad, he shouldn't have to. I figured that shit out on my own."

"What are you reading?" Roberts asked, hoping to head off more embarrassment. Now that Chuck had mentioned it, it was obvious.

"Book I borrowed from Stillwater. Patton's autobiography," Aaron said. "Good shit."

"Why are you reading that?" Roberts asked.

Aaron folded the book and looked at Roberts. "Man devised half the tank strategies and tactics we use today. Rommel did the other half and I already read his book. Gonna read Zhukov's memoirs next, get the Soviet side of it."

"Seems like everyone's reading," Roberts grumped.

"Dude, there's nothing to do up here but jerk off, read, or sleep," Aaron said, picking up his book. He shook his head. "Colonel Henry offers promotion points to people who write up stuff based on military leaders or political leaders, I'm hoping if I do an analysis of tank warfare he might toss me a couple points on my military or civilian education spread."

"Oh," Roberts said. "Is that why Stillwater's got all those books?"

"Hell no, motherfucker's always reading," Aaron laughed. "My promotion points are at 998, his is like 315, and you can get that many points just breathing. Hell, his MOS, you don't even have to be promotable or go to the board to make the point spread."

"Oh, so had an easier time getting E-5?" Roberts suddenly felt he had the picture of why the younger man was already and E-5.

Aaron snorted at that, trying to stifle a laugh. "Sure. Easier. He's had it real easy up here."

Roberts nodded, things suddenly making more sense.

"Thought he was pretty young to be an E-5," Roberts said.

"Jesus, dude, are you fucking jealous of him or something?" Chuck suddenly broke in. "Did he wake you up by laying his dick on your forehead and telling you that you're his bitch now?"

"No, just..." Roberts started.

"He's been in the military five years," Aaron said. "He's been here on this fucking mountain over four years. He's earned every fucking stripe he has. Wait till you see Atlas, then you'll understand," He looked back at his book. "If you fucking survive."

"Come on, it's twenty-after, let's walk down to the Chow Hall," Chuck said, grabbing Roberts's arm. "Christ, your room-mate has you wound up."

"He's an asshole," Roberts said as they got close to the door.

"Yeah, he's the asshole," Aaron muttered as the door closed. Aaron could see the problem right off. Only child, probably Mommy made sure dinner was on the table and Daddy came home from work right at eighteen-thirty. Graduated top of his class Basic and AIT from what Chuck had said, which Aaron knew probably made the kid think he was even more special.

Aaron snorted, turning the page.

It's always the big fish that get the pissiest when they discover that in the ocean they aren't as big as they thought.

Outside Chuck was pointing at the Motor Pool fence.

"Me and Aaron were drinking with a buddy of his from Motor Pool. They've got nearly four hundred vehicles up there. Dude, they even have armored vehicles. APC's and shit. Forklifts, the big rough terrain ones, cranes, bulldozers, backhoes, cargo trucks, all that shit. We'll learn how to drive one and be assigned as TC or driver at the end of inprocessing."

Roberts just nodded.

"The mechanic, Toffman, he told me he could probably hook me up with one of the APC's if it's all right with my squad leader. I asked Sergeant Bomber this morning, he told me to knock myself out. That there's APC's at the site that need a driver," Chuck was saying. "Isn't that fucking cool?"

"Yeah," Roberts felt glum. Chuck's squad leader comes in and is all nice to him, Roberts's squad leader threatens to kill him.

"Aaron told me that Sergeant Bomber and Sergeant Stillwater went through training together. They met in Reception, then went through Basic and AIT together," Chuck said, waving at one of the tower guards, who waved back.

Fucking hell, what hasn't that guy done? Roberts wondered glumly.

When they got to the Chow Hall the two men signed in, got their trays and plates, and were served Salisbury steak with diced potatoes, green beans, and jello. Chuck wolfed it down like he was starving, but Roberts wasn't that hungry, his appetite off.

"Sergeant Bomber said he's gonna recommend I go to Air Assault, said the only one at his site who's Air Assault qualified or interested in it is him," Chuck said, pushing back his tray and lighting a cigarette. "What's wrong, you're not hungry?"

Roberts shook his head.

"Dude, what's wrong. Come one," Chuck asked.

"I'm sharing a room with my squad leader," Roberts said, setting his fork down.

"Dude's a total badass from what I've heard. He's got a radioman who's made of fucking ice, too," Chuck said, waving his hand. "His radioman got his guts ripped out with a bayonet and was still transmitting, still running commo."

Roberts scoffed. "Bullshit, man."

"Serious. That guy from Motorpool, he was with them that winter. Well, not with them with them, but he was down in these fucking tunnels under the barracks. They got attacked by the fucking Russians, man. Right here in the barracks. I didn't believe them and Toffman showed me his scar where he got shot. That Stokes chick, the big Amazon? Yeah, she saved him, he got a Purple Heart and everything," Chuck said. He waved his hand. "Dude, you wanted to be a badass and shit, right? This is your fucking chance, this unit, right here, man."

Roberts shrugged. "I don't know, man."

"Dude, I'm an E-fucking-One, a goddamn nobody, and my squad leader comes in this morning, brings me fucking breakfast his wife cooked, asks how I'm doing and shit, says he'll let me, a fucking E-1, go to Air Assault? Come on, this unit's gonna be fucking great," Chuck said.

"Yeah, well you aren't living with your squad leader, who happens to be a total dick," Roberts said.

"Didn't seem that bad to me," Chuck said, crushing out his cigarette.

Bet you've been an asshole the whole time you were in there, James, Chuck thought to himself, looking at the other man. Every time someone does better than you, you sulk like my little sister.

"You try living with him," Roberts said, standing up with him.

"Shit, I just might. Dude plays D&D and pumps iron, how bad can he be?" Chuck said, setting his tray on the conveyor.

Roberts copied him, following him out the back doors and down the steps.

Heading back to the barracks they saw Lewis walking with two other woman. One was taller than even Chuck's six-foot-one, the other was Roberts's height but looked fat.

"Figures she's a dyke," Roberts said, looking back at them after they went past.

Chuck laughed. "What? Because she's going to lunch with two other females?"

"You saw them. Tell me they're not dykes," Roberts said.

"That big one, that's that Stokes chick Toffman was telling me about. The other one, that's the chick who was on the machinegun when they picked us up, dude," Chuck shrugged. "Don't care if they're dykes. Although both of them got some big tits," he glanced back. "Damn, nice asses too. What makes you think they're dykes?"

"Look at them," Roberts said.

"I am looking at them. Damn, that tall one, Stokes, she's got a fucking nice ass. I'll bet she fucks like an animal too. Bet that other one, Cromwell or whatever her name is, I'll bet she can suck cock like a champ," Chuck said, waving at the tower guard, who just gave him the finger and laughed.

"Whatever," Roberts grumbled, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

Chuck kept glancing back till the three women went into the Chow Hall, doubting that Roberts was right.

They've probably got boyfriends. No way they're single. Not a fucking chance, Chuck thought, pulling open the door to the CQ Area.

They took the stairwell up, then headed down the hallway, the sound of people's stereos overlapping and mixing as they moved past rooms.

"Better go see if Sergeant Asshole is still in the room," Roberts grunted, stopping at his door.

"Dude, try to get along with him. I mean, he is your squad leader," Chuck said.

"I tried," Roberts protested, finding the door was locked. He sighed, unlocked it, opening it and looking at Chuck. "My room-mate isn't as easy to get along with."

"Bullshit, you're just not trying, man," Chuck said, shaking his head. He followed Roberts in, looking around. "Dude, he's been here four fucking years. He was here when I was still in High School."

Chuck moved over to the fridge, looking inside. "Hey, think he'll mind if I grab a beer?"

"I thought you were too young to drink?" Roberts said.

"That PAC Clerk that checked us in? The hot one that looks like a movie star or an Air Force chick, Shaft? She said it was 18. Weren't you paying attention when she gave you your ration card?" Chuck asked. "Fuck it, hopefully he won't be pissed."

"He shouldn't be, he has like three other cases," Roberts said.

Chuck shrugged, first trying to twist the cap off then popping it off with the church-key glued over a metal box on the fridge. He took a drink.

"Damn, that's good. Bitter, but good," Chuck said.

Roberts could vaguely remember something about his ration card, but he didn't drink or smoke, so he wasn't that worried about it.

Chuck walked over to the desk, looking down. "Wow, the Sergeant has some serious stuff here," he said.

Roberts looked over. "What, it's a computer? So what?"

Chuck shook his head. "That's an Amiga, expensive. My dad used them at work," He flipped over one of the books. "Programming books."

Chuck sat down and looked around. "Dude, you didn't think just because he's a big dude with one eye that he's a dumbass or something, did you?"

"No," Roberts said, somewhat defensively.

"What, you see the stuffed animals and thought he was a fag or something?" Chuck laughed. "Fags and dykes live in Queer Country, man."

"No," Roberts said again, turning away.

"What the fuck is up your ass, James?" Chuck asked, lighting a cigarette.

"How the hell am I supposed to relax if I have to room with my squad leader?" Roberts said, turning around. "I can't bitch about him, can't bitch about work, he'll fucking hear me. There's not even a place for me to put a TV or a stereo."

"You got a TV or a stereo?" Chuck asked, looking around. "Because I don't see any unpacked boxes around here. You're the same as everyone else who just left AIT, you've got jack and shit unless your parents ship you something."

"Well, no," Roberts admitted. "But what if I did?"

"What if monkeys flew out your ass and attacked your roommate? Dude, unclench. Jesus. You and him really got off on the wrong foot, didn't you?" Chuck said, shaking his head.

"He's an asshole," Roberts said.

Chuck drained the beer, tossing the bottle in the garbage. He pulled out his wallet, pulling out a dollar bill and setting it on the table. "Tell the Sergeant the dollar's for the beer and thank him for me."

"Where are you going?" Roberts asked.

"Got shit to unpack, Roberts. I'll see you around," Chuck said, leaving the room.

I think it isn't Stillwater that's the asshole, James, Chuck thought to himself.

Someone else came out of a room and Chuck stepped forward. "Heyyy, Chuck Newsome, Second Squad, Third Magazine Platoon," He held out his hand and the other guy took it, looking somewhat bemused.

"Hendricks, Fifth Squad, Second Mag," The guy said.

Shit, James, it's easy to make friends here.