romise not to devour any more second
lieutenants between meals."

"Sir," offered one of the lieutenants, "why don't we put Wims in the
hospital just for tomorrow. It would be simple to arrange--say, an upset
stomach."

The captain looked sadly at his junior officer. "It's the only hospital
we have," he said. "Besides, I have a better idea. I'm detaching Wims
from his platoon and will keep him with me at the company command post
as a messenger and I'll shoot the first man who attempts to use him as a
messenger or anything else."

"Hah! No need to worry about that, sir. Wims may have us a little shook
up but he hasn't flipped us yet."

"I hope we can all say that when tomorrow ends," the captain said
fervently.

* * * * *

The company command post had been set up under a cluster of dispirited
pines obviously suffering from tired sap but in spite of the ragged
shade they provided against the mild, mid-morning sun, Captain Aronsen
was perspiring excessively and becoming increasingly unsettled. He
glanced uneasily over at the somewhat planetary bulk of General Fyfe
surrounded by his satellite colonels and other aides, and muttered to
his lieutenant, "If Old Brassbottom came down here to observe the
exercise, then why the devil doesn't he go over to the hill and observe
instead of hanging around here like a sword of Demosthenes?"

"I think you mean Damocles, captain," the lieutenant corrected.
"Demosthenes was the orator."

Aronsen looked sourly at the lieutenant. "I know what I'm talking about.
Fyfe has only to say the word and off come our heads."

The lieutenant lowered his voice. "I don't like the way he keeps looking
at Wims. Do you think he's heard about him?"

"In Washington?"

"You know how rumors travel in the Army."

"Rumors, yes," the captain said, "but the truth can't even limp out of
the orderly room." He wiped his brow and shot a venomous glance at Wims.
He said to the lieutenant, "I don't like Wims sitting there in full
view of the general. Go tell him to take his comic book and sit on the
other side of the tree."

At that moment one of the young trainees stumbled into the headquarters
area bleeding profusely from a deep gash on his cheek. Between
lung-tearing gasps he told how the machine gun, intended to serve as the
base of fire for the attacking platoons, had been captured by a Red
patrol before it could be set up. They were being led off under the
supervisio