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“Before this goes any further, Tiny, get that sonofabitch in here!” Cronley ordered furiously.

When Dunwiddie hesitated, and looked as if he was about to say something, Cronley snapped, “That was a goddamned direct order, Sergeant Dunwiddie. Get that loose-mouthed little bastard in here. Now!”

Dunwiddie left the room.

Well, you really blew that, stupid!

Officers are supposed to maintain a cool and calm composure, and they absolutely should not refer to non-commissioned officers, no matter what they have done, as “sonsofbitches” or “loose-mouthed little bastards.”

He became aware that all three non-coms were standing at rigid attention.

“In case you’re wondering what’s going to happen next,” Cronley said, still furious, “I am going to hand former Staff Sergeant, now Private, Lewis a shovel, with which he will dig graves all day until I can get the sonofabitch on a slow boat to the goddamned Aleutian Islands, where he will dig graves in the goddamned ice until hell freezes over.”

There was no response for a full minute.

“Permission to speak, sir?” Technical Sergeant Martin barked.

After a moment, Cronley gestured and said, “Granted.”

“Sir, with respect, the sergeant suggests that the captain is going to need four shovels.”

“What in the name of Jesus H. Christ and all the saints of the Mormon Church from the Angel Moroni on down are you talking about?”

“Sir, the sergeant respectfully suggests that whatever the captain intends to do to former Staff Sergeant, now Private, Lewis, the captain should do to us, too.”

After a moment, Cronley said, “You’re all in this together, right? That’s your mind-boggling idiot fucking suggestion, Sergeant? That you’re the Three Goddamned Musketeers of Goddamned Kloster Grünau? All for one and one for all?”

“Sir, with respect, yes, sir, something like that.”

After another moment, Cronley said, “Okay, Sergeant. Now tell me what in your obviously warped mind it is that tells you I should do anything like that. It better be good.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, the sergeant requests the captain consider that the three of us, plus Private Lewis, and First Sergeant Dunwiddie were the only non-coms left after the Krauts kicked the shit out of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion in the Ardennes Forest.”

“You’re talking about the Battle of the Bulge?” Cronley asked softly.

“Yes, sir. And after that, sir, we have been sort of like the Three Musketeers, as the captain suggests. Real close. No secrets between us. But, sir, that doesn’t mean we share what we have with anyone else, just with each other. Harold—excuse me, sir—Private Lewis thought we should know about you running that Kraut sonofabitch off when he was tormenting the Russian and he told us. Sir, we wanted him to tell us. So we’re in this deep shit as deep as he is.”

Cronley looked at him a moment and then said, “Stand at ease.”

The three moved from attention to parade rest, which was not at ease.

“If we are going to have an amicable relationship in the future, you’re going to have to start obeying my orders,” Cronley said. “Or don’t you know what at ease means?”

They relaxed.

First Sergeant Dunwiddie and Staff Sergeant Lewis came into the room.

That was quick.

Dunwiddie had Lewis stashed somewhere close.

Why should that surprise me?

Staff Sergeant Lewis marched up to Cronley, came to attention, raised his hand quickly to his temple, and barked, “Sir, Staff Sergeant Lewis, Harold, Junior, reporting to the commanding officer as ordered, sir.”

Cronley crisply returned the salute.

“Permission to speak, sir?” Dunwiddie asked.