Page 4 of Pieces Into Place

“And you, Smith,” he says, “shouldn’t have ever made it out of processing week.”

“Yes, sir,” Smitty agrees.

“No, I’m serious, Dick for Brains. I don’t know how you completed the necessary paperwork to enter the Navy, much less become an operator.”

“I guess I’m lucky, sir,” he says, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to lose my shit in a fit of laughter.

“Do you morons understand why we’re here? I mean, you must know that our presence here isn’t something we want advertised?” he asks, cocking his head to the side but still not looking in our direction.

“Yes, sir,” I answer.

Finally, he turns to look at us. “Then perhaps you can tell me why the local cops got reports of ‘two American soldiers’ brawling in a shit-hole bar last night?”

Emerson removes his glasses, and if I were a lesser man who hadn’t trained with men exactly like him, I’d shiver at the coldness I see in his dark eyes.

“Just letting off steam,” I respond, meeting his stare.

“Un-fucking-believable.” He shakes his head, slowly lights the cigar again, and takes several short puffs. We sit silently as the smoke rings circle us, dissipating into the hot surrounding air.

He turns to look at Smitty, sitting to his left. “And what the fuck happened to you?” he asks.

“A couple of those guys were pretty big. They were stronger than I thought,” he admits. Smitty isn’t purposely trying to be glib. He’s answering the question that was posed to him.

My best friend is a simple country boy from Montana. He’s not always great at reading situations, and it tends to drive our commanding officers up the fucking wall.

My lips twitch as a smile threatens to break out again. He tried to take on six guys in his drunken stupor. They could have been fourteen years old, and he still would’ve gotten his ass kicked.

“You don’t seem too bad, Hudson,” Emerson says, addressing me.

“No, sir. Just a bit of a headache.”

He runs his hand over his face and looks up at the sky as if willing God to give him the patience to continue.

“Gentlemen, we are here at the request of the United States of America, under the cover of anonymity, to do some shit most people do not want to know about,” he says, pausing to look out over the barren desert before us. “I understand you want to blow off steam, but I suggest you figure out how to do it in a way that doesn’t jeopardize this team, or you will be gone faster than a whore’s panties on a Friday night.”

The silence sits heavy between us. Finally, he says, “Neither of you is worth the fuel to get you home. One call and you will be replaced. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” we say sharply in unison.

“Good,” he says, relaxing in his chair. “Now go get checked out by medical and get the fuck out of my sight.”

“Yes, sir,” we repeat, promptly stand, turn, and walk away.

“Why are you always in my medical tent, Hudson?” Doc asks.

I hold my hands up in defense. “This one isn’t on me, Doc. Smitty got into it with some locals. I was just doing my job to help out my brother.”

“Bullshit,” he says as he sits before me, shining a light in my eyes. It’s fucking bright and makes my head pound even harder.

“So what did the locals say to instigate the melee?” he asks.

I shrug my shoulders and fight the nausea traveling through my stomach. “Something about how country boys fuck cows.”

Doc drops the flashlight and stares at me incredulously. “Fuck cows?” he questions.

“Smitty loves cows. Just not in that way,“ I reply with a smirk.

“You fucking guys,” he says with a shake of his head. “Too much testosterone and too little brain matter.”