the HK tour is screwed—"
Gary met my eyes squarely. "Randy, hang on to your temper a minute—"
"Fuck you very much, Vernon."
I turned without another word and left with my gear slung across my back, not even stomping or hurrying. When I got to the door, I slammed it open and stalked out into the cold.
Dammit! It was about time Vernon let somebody else take the shit for a change. Screw morale . . . along with everything else about the goddamned Army. . . .
As I stormed toward the waiting jeep—where Johnson already huddled, looking less miserable than he was going to by the time I got through with his ass—I wondered if I'd get any sleep on the drive over.
Johnson grinned at me and said, "Hey, man, you know how it is . . ." with that stupid look of his pasted all over his bony face.
I wanted to shoot him.
Instead, I drove out to the goddamned range with him, and got the misbegotten little shirker qualified. By the time we finished, Johnson wasn't smiling anymore. Hell, by the time I finished with him, I wasn't sure Archibald Johnson would ever smile again, and didn't give a bald rat's ass one way