Summer Fling
by: White Queen

Saunders eased open the door flap of the tent First Squad was sharing for a few days. He peered out into the early-morning light, warily scanning the other tents anchored nearby for signs of life. Satisfied the coast was clear, he tiptoed out and closed the flap with only the barest slap of canvas on canvas.

Boots in one hand, socks in the other, Saunders strolled barefoot through the dewy grass toward a copse of trees to the east of the tiny camp. You would never guess people were trying to kill each other a few miles away. Here, far behind the front lines, the only sounds came from birds scolding any intruder that dared pass beneath their leafy perches.

Saunders made his way through the trees until he reached the edge of a sun-drenched meadow. In the middle of the meadow was a wide pond. Green grass waved cheerily on its gentle banks, and an early morning breeze ruffled the clear water.

There would be plenty of time later to tell the others what he'd found while doing a bit of private reconnaissance the night before. For now, the pond was his and his alone. Saunders breathed deeply and surveyed his watery kingdom, a charming replica of his favorite childhood haunt.

After dropping his boots and socks on the grass, Saunders shed his pants and shirt. Clad only in his shorts, undershirt, and dog tags, he stepped a few feet back. With a running leap, he launched himself into the air over the pond, hugged his knees to his chest, and hit the water with a satisfying splash. A perfect cannonball. This would be a wonderful morning.