“In general I use the following criteria,” he continued. “If Colonel Wasserman thought it was a great idea, I try to go in the exact opposite direction. In a way it’s too bad I can’t follow him through the rest of my career, it’s like a guiding light. Move Reynolds out gracefully. Give him a nice letter, your signature, not mine, and send him back to Charlie company. Find a good replacement. God help us if we had to go to war with this bozo.”

There was a period of silence as the two leaders listened to the falling precipitation. It seemed to have settled for sleet, but there were occasional flurries of snow and still a little freezing rain. In the distance there was a rumble of artillery from the Corp artillery having its bi-yearly live fire bash. Weather like this was good training for the cannon-cockers. Good training was an army euphemism for any situation that was miserable and, preferably, screwed up. Their present predicament met all the requirements for “good training.”

“Where the hell is the jeep?” asked the colonel, resignation echoing in every tone.

Coming down the road was a sight that would have been comical in other circumstances. Reynolds was tall and slender. Walking with him, carrying a gigantic overstuffed rucksack, was a short — Horner later learned he was five feet two inches tall — incredibly wide soldier. He looked like some camouflage-covered troll or hobgoblin. His oversized “Fritz” helmet and, when he got near enough to see, equally oversized nose completed the picture. Under one arm he carried a large chunk of pine, easily weighing seventy or eighty pounds and his face bore a deep frown. He looked far more annoyed than the colonel or sergeant major.