It wasn't the first time the duo of Nevins and Wiles had gotten into trouble, usually alcohol-related. Even when sober they were only marginally efficient. He wondered just how they had gotten their stripes.

"Why is it enough, Lieutenant?" Wiles asked with mock innocence.

Morrell iterated the reasons and added a last one. "Because I'm ordering you to, that's why."

Nevins hiccuped. "Lieutenant, why don't you flick off."

Morrell was stunned and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Tell you what. You're both drunk, and so's probably half the army. Now I'm gonna be a real nice guy and pretend I didn't hear that. You two get back to camp right now."

Nevins's face flushed in anger and he looked as if he might take a swing at Morrell. However, he quickly thought better of it. Along with being an officer and someone you just didn't hit, Morrell was sober and fit-looking. At five-eleven, he weighed a compact 180, and despite his curly blond hair and innocent-looking blue eyes, Morrell looked as if he could take care of himself, especially in a fight with two staggering drunks.

"No," said Sergeant Wiles. "Let's not forget about it. What the hell's the matter with you, Lieutenant? You know you got a reputation around here as being the choirboy officer. You're a pain in the ass, Lieutenant. Look, the war's over and we got a right to celebrate, and if you don't like it, why don't you get the flick back to your tent and stay there."

Morrell was livid with anger. He'd been with the outfit only a short time in comparison with many others, and he knew he wasn't getting respect from many of the men. Second lieutenants were the lowest of the officer ranks and all too often the butt of jokes by others with more experience. A joke, or even a veiled insult, he could deal with, but this was outright insubordination.