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The file thumped down onto the table in front of Moreau, who was standing rigidly at attention with his tail between his legs, quite literally. Behind the table was a mouse of barely 5 foot nothing, wearing the two full stripes and quarter stripe in between of a Major. He was missing most of his right ear, which was little more than a ragged flap of skin on his head at this point. Starkly contrasting to his left ear, which huge and floppy. Nobody knew where he had lost his ear, in fact there was a pot on whoever found out, everybody that wanted in threw 10 bucks into it, and whoever founds out got the pot.

Major Leon Harris was the CO of 2nd Comapany, the one in charge of field operations and the like on the front. Being called to his office was never considered a good thing. He was known as 'Hot Iron' Harris for a reason, never to his face though. The last poor sap that said that within earshot of him was transferred to the mess battalion and now cooks slop 12 hours a day.

In spite of all that he was a fair commander, never giving out harsher punishments then he deemed neccesary. That didn't help Sgt. Tim 'Napolean' Moreau from being scared shitless. HE had made the decision to go in without backup and caused the wounding of Cpl. Robert 'Lewis' Spall. What the reports didn't say was that the broken leg was not due to jumping off of a second story balcony, but simply by being crushed by Pvt. George 'Tank' Faraday in the 60Km drive back to base camp in the trunk of the humvee. Everyone agreed that omitting that part was in the best interests of the platoon as a whole, not to mention Spall's dignity.

Tim looked around the tent, usually officers had all sorts of different decorations set up in their command tents, Harris didn't seemt to have any, save for a photo of his a woman holding a newborn tacked onto the wall beside the folding chair swiped from the mess he used, Tim assumed that the photowas of his wife and child, god knows how much everyone here missed their families. The top of his desk was bare save for a lamp, and the the file reading 'MOREAU' that had just been put on it.

"Please state your Name Rank and Serial Number for the record." Harris's voice was as everyone expected, high pitched and squeaky. Although nobody ever made the mistake to laugh at it twice.

"Timothy Moreau, Sargeant, 714 705 759"

Harris opened the file that contained not only his military history, but his personal history as well. All the while staring at Moreau with his bright blue eyes. "Born August 24, 1984. Signed up at age 18, your record has been spotty at best Sargeant, you realize that you've been considered for withdrawal from the front?"

"With all due respect Sir, the charges were bogus."

"Never the less, now describe to me what happened in your previous 'routine' patrol." Harris put emphasis on the routine, because it was anything but. And people said he didn't have a sense of humour.

"Fireteam 2 of Charlie Squad recieved an emergency broadcast on a secure channel from Bravo Squad. Saying that they were pinned down under heavy fire, and needed assistance..."

___________________________________________________________________________________________

The flap on the tent door opened, and everyone looked up from what they were doing. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when Tim stepped through, they were a little on edge from recent days.

"Who in the blazes is that?" Tim blurted, pointing to the hairless pink thing that was lying on Spall's bunk with a cast.

Tank and Bomber burst out in hysterics, realizing that he hadn't known that the barber had gotten a little overzealous with the clippers while prepping Spall for his cast.

"Hardy-fucking-har, now go lick a cactus." Lewis said, with murder in his voice. Shifting to a sitting position, swinging his leg over the edge of the cot. "What'd Hot Iron want?"

Tim took off his shirt, throwing it onto his bunk. His Tags reflecting the light from the gas lamp on the work bench. "He wanted to let you know you're in big trouble for biting that doctor that tried to get you to stay in the infirmary..."

"That can't be all, I mean, he was practically asking for it." Spall shot back.

"...And he wanted to let me know that we're getting a replacement for the six weeks you're in that cast."

"Bomber stopped giggling and looked at his childhood friend. "You can't be serious?"

"Unfortunately not," Tim said evenly. "She's getting here tomorrow."

That one promptly stopped Tank laughing. "She?! We's gettin' a flippun' gurl?"

"Yes, and I want you on your best behaviour, she's fresh out of boot and is still full of that whole 'No Sexism in the Army' crap." Tim said unlacing his boots and tapping them on the edge of the cot to get the sand out. "Which means we'l be needing another cot in here, think you can handle that you big lump?"

"Shure ting boss, bu' frum where?"

"Be creative, and Spall?"

"Whuzzit?" Spall said, reaching for his crutches.

"Just because you're leg is broken, doesn't mean you're going to be able to get away with not cleaning your rifle."