In Country

"It's an alert," Sergeant Yvonne told them. "Everybody just hang out and be easy."

"Easy for you," shot back Wiesczniewski, whose fast hands on the sorting line had earned him the name of Whizzer.

And the Whizzer was right of course. Here they sat on their bunk racks in a converted warehouse in an alien city in the first hours of a real war. Even in the deep of the winter night it was close and hot enough, but they also had on their Suits — Chemical and Nuclear Warfare Protective Clothing. Sweatsacks, whole-body condoms, body bags with sleeves. There were those who'd rather have the gas.

Including apparently Private Dexter here, whose attention to detail was lacking. Yvonne came over and tugged his headpiece. "Hey asshole, seal your hood."

Dexter fumbled with the gaskets, grinning. "Okay, Sarge. Now I am ready for love."