Pairing: Sk/Other

Rating: NC-17 for graphic sex and language. Slash.

Keywords: Skinner, Vietnam, Marines, angst, discipline, slash.

Summary: In the midst of the realities of war, the young Walter Skinner gets through a crisis and learns a valuable lesson.

Disclaimer: Sgt.Brabban is my creation and I'm quite pleased with him . Skinner isn't mine, no matter how hard I wish. He is brought wonderfully to life by Mitch Pileggi and is the commercial property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I intend only respectful appreciation by my use of the character here - no money is being made.

Archiving: Just ask first.

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Bravo Company base camp, 5th Marines,

Hua Binh, Vietnam,

Oct. 22^nd 1970

A single kerosene lamp lights the tent. It hangs from the roof beam and the shadows of the moths it attracts swoop across the canvas as big as birds. In the pool of light a big man sits at a desk, writing. Powerful shoulders strain the drab green fabric of his T-shirt and his meaty hand almost engulfs the pen it holds. He looks up briefly, frowning at the tedium of his task and rolling his head to ease tired muscles. Crisp steel-gray hair stands up in short spikes on his head, contrasting with light blue eyes under black whiskery brows. He could be anything between 35 and 50, fit and hard. Gunnery Sergeant Dwight Brabban, career Marine. Let him tell it how it was...

~~~~~

The rain started around dusk, heavy splashes darkening the dusty ground. Even in late Autumn, the days are still shit-hot, sultry and airless, so the change is a welcome relief. I'm just finishing up the report of the day for the Lieutenant. Paperwork, always more damn paperwork... I didn't join the Corps to become an administrator, but more and more frequently my job seems to come down to pieces of paper. Requisitions, sit-reps, intelligence, reports in triplicate... I resent the time it takes away from what I consider is my real task - turning B Company from a collection of green boot recruits into a unit of real Marines. The war has given an urgency to everything - the normal weeks of boot camp and field training have been halved - these teenaged boys barely have time to get their hair cut and they're In Country, fighting for their lives. I stare down at my own words in the logbook - one of my boys has had a tough day today.

Over the background patter of the steady rain, I hear a nervous cough outside the tent. Glad of the interruption I down my pen and close the company log.

"Speak up, Marine."

"Sir, Private Connolly requesting permission to enter, sir!"

Connolly is PFC Skinner's buddy; I've been half expecting this. The grunts watch out for each other of course, but Skinner is my responsibility too, as they all are.

"Come in, Connolly, just don't drip everywhere."

The young sandy-haired Marine hasn't bothered donning his poncho for the short walk across to NCO territory and his utility shirt is plastered to his shoulders in dark streaks. Standing at rigid attention, his freckled boyish face creases in a frown.

"At ease, Marine. What's on your mind?"

I use a more relaxed manner than my Drill Sergeant counterparts back at Parris Island or Camp Pendleton would ever tolerate. This isn't boot camp and out here a lot more is at stake than winning the pennant for best turn-out. Discipline is vital, yes, but trust maybe even more so. When each of you relies on his buddy as much as on his M16 to keep him alive, you need to get to know those buddies and I want my grunts to know I'm human at least. Connolly is gnawing his lip, his usual Irish Blarney deserting him for the moment. I take pity on him:

"All right son, I think I can guess. Skinner's not doing so good, huh?"

"Sir, no sir. Um... well, you know Slice, Gunny, he's always so... "

I can see Connolly's reluctance to grass on his friend. "Serious?" I offer. His vehement nod is almost comical.

"Yeah, um... yes, Sarge. He's a great guy, but real gung ho. We were all shook up after what happened, of course, and Valdez passed around some beers, but Slice just sat staring out at the compound. He didn't go for chow, then I found him under the shower - just standing there long after the water had stopped. He won't talk to me, Gunny. Been doing press-ups for nearly an hour, ran the perimeter for an age before that... Sir... I don't know if..." He tails off, embarrassed to be telling tales, but clearly worried about his comrade.

I'd planned to stop by their tent after filing this report, but from the sound of it, one of my Marines is in trouble and that takes priority. "You did right to come to me, Connolly. This needs fixing right now, I'm going to talk to Slice and put him straight on what happened today. He's a good soldier."

"Sir, yes sir!" The grunt looks happier already. Such faith in his Gunny knowing the solution to any given problem.

Three months in 'Nam may have begun the process of turning these boys into men, but they are still basically high-school kids with guns. They need to believe that someone knows the score, someone is in charge. For most of the company that someone is their Gunnery Sergeant. Not the wet-behind-the-ears Lieutenant - though thankfully mine trusts me to take care of stuff like this - not the always-busy Captain, but their Gunny. It's a role I don't begrudge. A career Marine on my third tour in this godforsaken country, I know more about "esprit de Corps" than most. If one of my Marines needs something, I sure as hell should know about it. And after the experience he's had this afternoon, Private First Class Walter "Slice" Skinner has more reason than most to need a brother Marine's support tonight.

It happened right during mail call, around 2pm. A scrawny Vietnamese boy walked into camp. Not one of the VC's seasoned troops, just a child, no more than 9 or 10 years old. Wearing a cut-down utility vest with maybe two dozen grenades hanging off it. There are always a scattering of kids hanging round the compound gate hoping to barter, I guess the guard were caught napping. God knows what the gooks had given him but the kid was like a zombie... black unfocussed gaze as he walked straight for the centre of camp, right towards the fuel and ordnance dump. Charlie knew exactly where to send his guided missile to do the most damage.

The place was swarming with Marines, lining up to get their letters from home, sitting around reading them... as man after man looked up and took in the situation, all the voices fell silent. The boy kept on walking towards his target; the carnage coming closer with every shuffling step of his bare feet... I was silently cursing that my weapon was back in my tent. Everyone seemed frozen, men with their rifles in their hands hesitating, not trained for anything quite like this, until Skinner walked out from behind the wall of sandbags around the ammo dump, swung his rifle up, aimed and fired in what seemed like the longest second I could ever remember. Perfect clean shot between the kid's eyes. The body fell sideways, blood spraying away onto the dirt. The sound echoed in the air for a moment before all hell broke loose.

In the turmoil that followed, I noticed Skinner standing stock still while men ran past him, knocking against his shoulders. Then the joshing started, slaps on the back, calls of "Sheesh, Slice, what took ya so long?" "When did you go to sniper school?" "Tired of waiting for that Medal of Honor, huh, Slice?" Skinner just ducked his head and worked his jaw a little in that quiet way of his, and walked off on his own. I should have sensed trouble brewing right then.

I went to talk to him, of course. I confess I have a soft spot for Slice. He's going to make one hell of a good Marine if he stays alive long enough. He's the sort could make a real fine career in the Corps - he's got the self-discipline, got the balls, got the intelligence... He got that nickname partly because of his surname of course, but also because he apparently sliced the buttons off someone's shirt with a bullwhip, for a dare. I'd like to have seen that. Not the sort of circus trick you'd expect, if you knew Skinner.

I found out a bit about his background when his father was taken seriously ill not long after he was assigned to B Company. We were way out in the boonies and I was trying to get him compassionate leave, but he said no, if he could get a lift into Da Nang to phone his mother, he'd just as soon stay. His father wouldn't thank him for deserting his duty, no sir. We rode into the base at Da Nang together and he spoke some about his family. He's from the Pacific North-West, place called Hundred Pines. His dad's a Lutheran minister, his mom teaches kindergarten. He's a good son but I get the feeling there was more strictness than affection in his upbringing. Slice doesn't drink, doesn't swear and as far as I know, doesn't whore around either, and he's surely had the chance, both on liberty from boot camp and since he's been in 'Nam. I've heard another explanation for that nickname of his too, as in "I'd like a slice of that!" directed at his tight Marine ass. Oh yeah, we're all as macho as shit in the Corps, but there are things a jarhead will do for his brother, or take from his brother Marine - that's just the way it's always been. Skinner keeps himself to himself, though.

I was glad when Mike Connolly buddied up with Skinner - he's a couple of years older than Skinner but young for his age. I thought Skinner's steadiness would be good for him, and Connolly's tomboyish good humour would help Walter lighten up a bit. And if they could give each other some comfort in the midst of the killing, well... whatever gets you through, I say.

From Connolly's distress tonight, I can see he really cares for Slice, but it looks as if Slice hasn't let his buddy show him what brotherhood really means for a Marine. When I talked to him right after he shot the kid he was perfectly in control it seemed. His usual reserved self. Not needing help, not letting anyone in. You can't force a man to share his thoughts with you and I had a company to look after, so I let it go, hoping maybe he'd open up to Connolly later.

All this is going through my mind as we squelch across the mud to Skinner's billet. The rain is much heavier now, streaming across the rutted dirt, and it has the chill of approaching winter in it, so different from the heat of the day. It's no night for a grunt to be alone. PFC Skinner was a hero today. His quick thinking saved dozens of lives. The boy he shot was already dead when he walked into our midst - his own people had seen to that. Thanks to Slice at least he died quickly and cleanly, not as a human bomb. However, the first experience of killing at close range can affect a man in all kinds of ways and there's no shame in taking advice from an older, more experienced man in how to handle it. I'm determined to give Skinner whatever he needs to be able to sleep tonight.

Connolly plods off towards one of the other tents. He'll have the sense to keep away for as long as we need, and to keep the other men from walking in on my heart-to-heart with Skinner. His relief at having involved me is still obvious. I wave him away:

"Slice'll be fine, Private. We'll get him through." He beams at that "we" and scoots off, hunched against the downpour. I pull aside the tent flap and duck inside.

The six-man tent is wood-framed with room for the six cots and footlockers and a table and chairs in one corner. A few candles in coffee cans make patches of warmth in the shadows. The glow washes over the body of the man doing pull-ups on the centre beam. Private Walter Skinner is hauling himself up and down with grim determination, eyes closed, teeth gritted.

"That's enough of that, Marine." I put my growling DI's voice on, hoping he'll respond to something familiar. He stops the robotic movement and starts to lower himself to the ground.

"Did I give you permission to move, Marine?"

"Sir, no sir."

I walk up close to him. "I can't hear you, boy."

"Sir, no SIR!" The breath is hissing out of him as he hangs on the beam. I can see and smell the sweat on his bare chest; olive drab shorts stuck damply to the small of his back and long lean torso radiating heat.

I circle him slowly, upping the tension. I'm not being intentionally sadistic, making him hang there, but Marines understand discipline, they live to obey commands. I'm taking this Marine back to boot camp, back to basics, to a place where he knows the rules. I've seen this work on shell-shocked grunts in the middle of firefights, and it seems to be helping Skinner now. His breathing slows, brown eyes focus on me at last. Time to discover what place he's in.

"That's better, boy. Now I know you're tired, I know you're hurting..."

"Nooo!" The cry is almost wrenched from him. "I should be hurting but I'm not. I don't feel anything..." His chest is heaving again as he gets more agitated. "...sir." he adds as an afterthought.

Part of me sees just the suffering boy and I confess that part just wants to pull him into my arms and comfort him. But I also see the Marine in that boy, confused about his duty, about how a man is expected to behave. I can't afford to read this wrong... "You think you should be hurting? Because you killed that child today?" No point in wasting time - that's what all this is about.

His voice is low and shaky now: "Sir, yes, sir." The comforting formula. "He was so young, Gunny, and I blew his head off. Murdered him. I hate myself but I don't feel anything. No remorse, nothing. I should feel something, Gunny. What's wrong with me?" He's tired, I can see it, his head drooping down against the rough beam. He needs this to be over.

"Now listen to me, boy, and listen good." He raises his head, stiffens his spine. I have his attention, at least. "You didn't murder anyone. You took out an enemy that would have killed you and your comrades without compunction. It was him or a company of good US Marines. That's the math, that's the truth. You hate yourself because this is the first time in your eighteen years that you've had to take a life to save lives. But you haven't broken because you're trained not to break. You're a credit to your training, boy, and to the Corps. Do you hear me, Marine?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

My hands go to my belt, start to slowly unbuckle.

"Before your tour is over you'll take many more lives, and save many more too. It will be hard, but you'll do it because you have to." I'm circling him now, my belt doubled in my hand. "You'll do your duty and take your punishment if you break discipline." I'm choosing my words carefully, watching his face for a reaction. I've got an idea what's going on in this young Marine's head, but I need to be sure. If I judge wrongly, I could fuck up one of the best men I've got. At the word "punishment" his head lifts and his eyes flick to my face, then down to the belt.

"Sir, hmmnnn me, sir,"

Whispered so low I can't tell if he said "help me" or "hurt me". Maybe they're one and the same right now. A good strapping, then a good fucking - clear the guilt and make him feel good about himself again. He's got a hell of a lot to feel good about from where I'm standing, trailing the belt across his sweating shoulders, down his spine. Young strong muscles, smooth skin... I tap the leather against his ass.

"I can do that, boy," whatever he was begging for, I'm the one to give it. "I know what you need."

"Sir." More a sigh than a word. Lost dark eyes meet mine again, bleak but steady. It's enough.

Without warning, I snap the belt across his buttocks once. He gasps and his body arches away from the stroke, legs pumping to keep his balance. I know that had to sting like fury, but I'm not here to go easy on him. Again my arm lashes across him, another gasp, another involuntary flinch of the pelvis. He hitches his sweating arms higher onto the beam, adding the burn of aching shoulders to the fire across his butt.

"Let's see how we're doing, shall we?" With my free hand, I pull down the regulation drab green shorts, leaving him stripped bare. At the back his ass cheeks are nicely reddened and at the front... his cock is showing signs of life. I guessed right. Moving in close - both a threat and a promise - I squeeze one firm buttock, none too gently. It's hot to the touch and the hard muscle jumps under my palm. My own groin is beginning to respond insistently now. I look over Skinner's tensed body, savouring the arousal. Stepping to the front, I deliberately slide my gaze from his face to between his thighs and slip the doubled belt under his lifting cock, under the heavy ball sac. "Very good, Marine. Quick responses." I heft the belt a little, tugging the sensitive flesh before I slide the polished leather away. Now we both know where this is going.

"On the floor. At attention - now!" I crack out the command and watch his shaky biceps unwind from the beam and straighten painfully. With perfect discipline he lowers himself and assumes the ramrod straight stance of the parade ground. Only a twitch of his shoulders betrays what must be an agonising protest from over-worked muscles. He's the picture of a idealised young warrior - fierce spirit coiled within a hard young body. Beads of moisture wink in his dark crew-cut, high cheekbones are flushed and shining with perspiration. Black brows knotted in concentration and the stern set of his mouth still fail to disguise just how young he is. Or how beautiful. Not yet grown into his adult frame, his wide, rangy shoulders are still more bone than muscle, but his chest and arms hint at the mature man he will be all too soon.

Skinner's eyes are turbulent with need, soft aching black. I'm 6' 4" and he's not quite that, he has to lift his chin a little to meet my gaze. I wonder what my eyes give away. A step back and then... carefully oiled leather whips twice against naked flesh, a crack almost like gunshots, almost as irrevocable.

"You feel that, boy?" I know I've marked him this time, stripes marring that flawless ass.

"Sir, yes sir." Low, intense; more bullets.

Suddenly hot and breathless, I tug at the neck of my T-shirt, jangling the dog tags against my chest. His chest rises and falls and his ragged breath feels as if it were my own. I step around him again, taking back control. The brands of the belt criss-cross his backside. I can't resist testing the heat there, tingling under my palm like a living thing. I lower the zip on my pants, watch the bulge of my shorts push at the opening. I'm no longer sure whose need I'm listening to here and that's dangerous. There are two of us here but I'm the one with the power, the responsibility. I force my hunger down a notch and circle back to face him, though my hand stays curved around his throbbing cheek.

"Are we there yet, Marine?" I'm searching his face intently. He's tired, but the panic is gone. Only need glows there now and I'll attend to that too. "Two more, I think." Closing right in on him, so that his answering nod brushes damp cropped hair against my cheek. My hand moves from his butt to his groin, cupping the different heat there. He's hard, quivering like a racehorse under my touch. My own erection aches, held in check by the too-narrow opening of my pants. Spreading my legs to get better balance, I reach around him and snap the belt once more back and forth with a practised flick of my wrist.

Skinner lurches against me, jabbing the shaft of his cock into my caressing fist. His mouth falls open with a soft "Aaaahh" of pain/pleasure and his body tenses then slackens as he comes copiously over my fingers. I drop the belt and hold him up, grinding my groin against his hip with masochistic deliberation. Tears stand in his eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with your feelings, Slice, you just got lost there for a while. I'll bring you on home now, boy. You with me?" He won't let those tears fall but his mouth is soft and so very young. He's seen and done things many a grown man would quail at - all these boys have. One minute they're in high school, their minds on dating and football, the next they're carrying a gun in some god-forsaken jungle. We know our folks back home are thinking about us but all any of us has out here is each other. The Corps - our brothers in arms. There's no closer bond than that between fighting Marines and it's past time to bring Slice Skinner into the brotherhood. "You with me, Marine?" I ask again, putting a note of toughness back in my voice.

"Sir, yes SIR!" His chin lifts and he grins at me. Christ, but he's got the sexiest grin! Must be the first time I've seen that because once seen, never forgotten, believe me. Wide, white smile under huge shining mahogany eyes - now who's got the power? The rutting stag in me growls possessively as I lean in and kiss him roughly.

"Good. On your cot, boy, face down and find something to grab on to." I let him stand free and watch as he kicks free of the shorts round his ankles, heads for one of the narrow beds. I'm scanning the tent for lubrication while he settles himself. I'm thinking that I'm hungry enough to use gun-oil if I have to, but then I spot a familiar jar beside one of the footlockers.

"Vaseline?"

"It's Kaminski's sir." He props himself up on one elbow and shrugs in a "don't know, don't ask" kind of way.

"Well thank you, Private Kaminski," I laugh, "it's good to know you boys are well provided for."

"Sir, I've never... " Suddenly he's serious again - that devastating honesty that gives me goosebumps.

"I know," and I do, it's as I thought. "But you're with me now. I know the road."

"I'm ready, sir." Solemnity in his voice, in his eyes... I hope I'm right, that this is what he needs. God knows it's what I need, and I'll make it good for him, for damn sure. Seeing him like that, lying waiting for me, gives me a frisson of nerves. I've popped more than a few Marine cherries, but none that mattered more than this one. And I don't even think of him that way - he's not just virgin territory to conquer, he's one of my boys, a brave spirit to set on the right path. This is about sharing not taking. I may be the leader, but he's the star.

And what a star. While I get out of my pants and free my rigid cock at long last, I contemplate my young lover. He's followed orders and is lying face down on the rough olive drab blanket of the cot, arms hooked over the top edge, legs spread. His leanly muscled body still glistens with perspiration, the contours and curves of shoulders, back and ass strong and beautifully masculine. His dark colouring gives him a naturally warm skin tone, darkened by the Vietnamese sun into a deep honey-gold. Except for that sweet ass, two shades paler and now adorned with the clear red stripes of my belt. The cleft between the smooth globes of flesh is in shadow. As I dig my hand into the Vaseline, I am anticipating the caress of those satiny muscles against me, the sweetness of sinking myself into his hot tight clasp. Rolling a condom onto my shaft and slicking it up is almost more than I can stand. I'd better ease up or I'll come just from looking at him...

This is going to be possession. No quarter given. I'm going to take him my way. No softness or endearments this time, they're not what he needs tonight. He needs to be wanted, to be owned, to belong. He needs to feel - intense pleasure this time - to feel alive in the face of death, to feel whole and healthy in the face of blood and destruction. I'm going to take him to a very good place.

I slide an arm under his hips and lift him enough to push two thin Corps-issue pillows under. With simple words I show him the way: "Up... there. Down again... okay? Relax, open for me... Ahh, yes! Feel that?" He's so intuitive. I've got my thumb greased up and snubbed inside him, my fingers probing down between his spread thighs, and he's working with me already. When I pushed into him he arched up off the bed, pushing back around the intrusion. He lets me hear the harsh panting breaths my touch draws from him... "ugh, ugh, ugh..." as he consciously relaxes his anal muscles and lets me in deeper. "Take it, boy, this is small stuff yet."

I pop through the sphincter for the first time and stop still, knowing it burns. He cries out: "Don't stop, I want it, I want to feel you hard," and writhes on me, lean feet flexing against the cot-frame as he pushes for more and deeper. I'm hard all right and I don't need telling twice. Leaving my thumb in deep, I reach down, stroking hard along the perineum, massaging his balls. He moans wonderfully, pushing up on his braced arms, tossing his head back as if he's never felt such intense pleasure. Maybe he hasn't. If this is what a simple hand job does to him I can't wait to see how he reacts to my cock... it's taking all my faltering self-control to wait this long.

His balls feel full again, heavy with semen. The root of his cock is tightening under my fingers, hardening him with the speed of an 18 year-old's recovery rate. He's ready and I'm ravenous for him. "Hold on tight, boy." A turn of the wrist and my thumb pops out. I fill the glistening orifice with the swollen head of my cock and push - one long, merciless drive balls-deep. So fast I hardly sense anything but his heat as I sink into him. He shouts out, need then hurt then need again and I realise that if this is going to last more than a few seconds, I have to ease up.

The cot creaks in protest as I reluctantly pull back, shifting my weight back onto my knees, inching my swollen cock out a little. Count three pulse-beats in my own flesh and in his stretched tight around me, give him a moment to accept the rough invasion, for me to rein in the animal lust that's driving me. He opens himself even more, dropping his knees over the edge of the cot and I settle between his sweetly spread thighs.

"Sir? Please..." Who could resist the plea in that husky voice, half whisper, half groan? Not this Marine.

"Patience, boy," and it's me that needs it right now.

I want to do it with whatever finesse I have but my hips thrust forward again with pure selfish need and the sound he makes is another plea, wordless but irresistible. I hope to Christ he's not hurting and thinking he has to just take it like a man, I think as I rock into his hot sweet tight ass - I'm not into power games or sadism. The way he moves against me reassures me he's as turned on as I am. It's as if he's been given permission to feel pleasure for the first time in his life and it's beautiful to feel. He picks up my rhythm and undulates his hips in sync - sinuous and lithe under me, a glorious young animal.

There is no finesse whatsoever. I'm rough, I'm possessive, claiming him. I never stop feeling him though; every quiver, every clench of internal muscle, every opening and loosening and melting flex of his gorgeous body under me and around me. My balls are bouncing against Slice's round firm ass and it's so good but I haven't forgotten that this is about giving the boy what he needs tonight, so I shift my weight onto one arm and slip the other under his slick chest. Young smooth skin, hot and sleek with sweat now, damp chest hair, ripple of young muscle as I caress down to his groin... The second I touch his cock he bucks under me like an unbroken colt. I catch the new rhythm, thrusting into him behind and pumping him in front. Leaning down low over his back, I watch his face, one cheek rubbing at the blanket, mouth moving in mindless sounds of passion. Next time I'll make it face to face. Next time will be right after this one if it's up to me. I want to make this boy feel this good every night from now on.

Grinning at that happy thought, I rub my thumb across the velvet head of his straining cock, just once and he's gone. Everything tenses under me, every sinew in that powerful young body arched and stilled...

"Fuck!" The first time I've heard an obscenity cross his lips. He chooses his moment and his word well is all I can say. He's shot over my hand, hot and sudden and Christ, he's still half-hard even now. Oh to be 18 again. But I'm no teenager and I'm taking a bit longer to reach my moment... I pull out of Slice just enough to wipe his sticky juices around the base of my cock, then ease back onto both hands and go for it, ramming into him with all my muscle. He takes it all, panting and making these incredible wanton sounds that push me over the edge. The surge starts in my toes and rushes headlong through my whole body as I release. My ears ring and I truly do see stars for a second. I don’t think I've come so hard in years. He gives up the last of himself a moment later. We're both spent.

I've just about enough strength left to let my weight down beside him, the two of us a tight fit in the narrow cot. After a few seconds I'm soft enough to slip out of him. His sigh does wonders for my ego. So how's he doing, my boy, my lover?

I only have to touch his shoulder and he rolls to face me, face flushed, eyes bright with something... I'm completely taken aback when he leans forward and kisses me, quick and shy. If this is a thank you is one of the sweetest I've ever had. I return it with interest, deep and tender, with real appreciation for what we've shared. Reluctantly, I shift out of the too-narrow space and kneel beside the cot as I look my fill at this beautiful young man. I give more kisses, to throat and nipples and navel and palms of hands and long lean feet. This disconcerts him more than the sex, blushes crimsoning his cheeks and making his ears glow. He gives a little shake of the head, like he's not sure if he's awake or not.

"Sarge... was it, was I...?"

"You did real good, Slice. Real good." And can we do it again tomorrow and the next night and the next...?

As if he hears what I don't say out loud he relaxes again and gives me that devastating grin. Maybe I did good tonight too. My responsibilities come rushing back to claim me. Pushing gently on his thigh, I spread him so I can check he's really okay. There's one little spot of blood. Damn. He hears my indrawn breath and looks down to where my gaze is fixed.

"First blood. It's about life as well as death, isn’t it, sir?" His eyes are suddenly 18 going on 50, but he's smiling too.

"It sure is, Marine." And I hope he hears all that I mean him to in that title.

"Sir, yes sir!"

THE END