Horrible Harvest

A woman run half-dressed from a tent some 10 feet ahead of us, and we all come to a stop at Captain Doc’s hand signal. A fella stewed out of his mind and gushing blood from his nose come out of the tent in staggering pursuit of the now screaming woman. He got five steps in before he tripped over his suspenders and fell face first into the mud-packed ground. It took him all his drunken might to push himself up on his hands and knees. Blood poured from his nose. He lifted himself up and rested his ass on his heels, not noticing us until he turned to spit out a mouthful of blood.

“The fuck’re you?”

Captain Doc answered with mild alarm, “Special envoy. Company K. Are you in need of medical attention?”

A mixture of mucus, mud, and blood stretched from his face to his hand. “Not hardly. Just another day in the fucking army is what it is.” He whipped his right leg out from underneath him and planted his foot in the mud. “Wha-choo boys special envoying today?” He managed to find the coordination to stand.

“The woman? Is she in need of medical attention?”

The injured man turned in the direction she’d run. “Her? Wha-choo think? She runs like a goddamn jackrabbit. Got a mule kick for a punch. I can give witness to that my ownself. Nah, sir. She’s fit enough. You on envoy business, are you?”

“We’re here to see General Miller.”

“If you say so.”

“What’s your rank, soldier?”

“My rank?” He laughed. “I’m king of the goddamn world is what I am. All of it. That’s my rank. What’s yours?”

“Do you not see my insignia on my uniform, sir?”

The man squinted. “I can’t see shit. Bitch punched me cross-eyed. You some kind of officer?”

“I am a captain, sir, and given your demeanor, I assume you hold no rank.”

“You’d be right about that. I hold no rank. ‘Bout the only thing I am holding right this right now is a shit. I’m going to hit the trench and let loose of it before it liberates itself from unranked ass on this very spot.”

Before he could walk away, the captain barked out, “General Miller? Where is he?”

“Turn yourself to the right. Keep going until you see a bivvy five times the size of my little shit-tent. That’d be where you wanna go.” The man staggered away in the opposite direction.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Kiss my ass is my name. King kiss my ass.”

Faces of other drunken soldiers appeared out of the openings of the surrounding tents. All sported furrowed glares. All snarled at us for disturbing their whisky-soaked sleep.

The captain turned to the right and directed us to follow.