My War, My Rules
By: RDR

Saunders paused at the entrance, removing his helmet and running his hands through his thick, sandy hair. Tired blue eyes stared at the tent in front of him, and he willed his feet to move, but it was no good. He could go no further. It wasn’t that he was wounded or even beyond exhaustion this time. He had done this both ways. No, this time it was something more.

He had known it was coming for a while. The anxiety built up in him each time, and day by day after an incident it would grow worse. But the worst thing was, it was affecting his squad. He could see it in their eyes. When Billy realized what had happened—yet again—the earnest hero worship dropped. No, it wasn’t gone and would probably never be. But Saunders realized that each time, he became more human to the youngster. For some that might be a thing to strive for, but out here, a little awe and belief could take a soldier a long way.

Doc. Saunders had seen him shake his head this last time when it became apparent what had yet again transpired. Was it in disgust? Disbelief? Saunders knew he had seen the former flicker in Kirby’s beady little eyes--and perhaps a modicum of triumph, also. Well, damn him, let him be sergeant. Let him or Littlejohn, who wouldn’t even look at him the entire tromp back, be leader for a day. See how they would balance the welfare of the men, the orders, the million little details of every mission. See if they could pull it off without a mistake, without one little slip, without one loss…

From behind him, he heard a softly accented voice raise in return to some familiar taunting. Caje. The scout most likely was coming to support him. But instead of gratitude, Saunders felt a surge of anger. He didn’t need his soldiers’ support or solicitation. What he needed them to do was just follow orders. But Caje had truly stepped over the line this time by not just doing what he was asked, but ignoring Saunders and taking care of the problem himself. And the worst part was, as he had run past the sergeant, Saunders could swear that he saw sympathy in the scout’s momentary glace.

Saunders wouldn’t find sympathy here. He didn’t want sympathy. He just wanted to get it over with without any comments, without feeling, without …no, damn it. He wasn’t doing it again. Not now, not ever. He didn’t ask for this, not any of it. But he took what they gave him. He did the best he could. But this would never happen again. His mind was made up, and for the first time in a while, the young sergeant almost felt giddy in relief, his footsteps nearly weightless and he turned away from the dread potential conflict in the tent.

And ran smack into Caje. There it was again, Saunders saw sympathy in the Cajun’s eyes as the private straightened up and reached out to place a supportive hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. “What happened, Sarge?”

“Nothing.” Saunders almost grinned at the confused and shocked expression his answer elicited.

“Nothing?” the private incredulously repeated.

“Nothing,” Saunders replied firmly.

“But…but, you have to tell them. You have to get another one.” Caje was actually pushing on Saunders, shoving him back toward the dreaded tent.

Saunders dug in his heels, knowing that the scout thought that he had lost his mind, not understanding that in this action, Saunders may have just found peace of mind, even for just a little while.

“No, I’m not telling them. I’m not getting another one. I’m not…”

The tent flap opened. And there he was, smoking the dreaded cigar, his expression cruelly amused at the scene in front of him.

“Well, if it isn’t the great Sergeant Saunders.” A large puff of smoke accompanied the taunting question, “Lose another one, Sergeant?”

Saunders looked at Caje, daring him to say something. For a moment, their eyes met, and Saunders’ freezing, glacial blue warning silenced his disbelieving subordinate. There were some things he could control.

Saunders grabbed Caje by the elbow, tugging him away, not deigning to reply to the continued sotto voice jeering behind him.

“But Sarge…” Caje’s voice was almost a whine.

“Don’t “but Sarge” me. I’m not doing it. Not ever again.” Yep, he felt like a school boy, a naughty little school boy. And it felt good.

Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his own cigar that he had been saving for a special occasion. As he clipped it, then carefully placed a match to the end, he was aware of the tense presence beside him. Well, let Caje take that and smoke it. Let them all. He was only human, could only take so much.

He looked up and saw Hanley striding toward him. For a moment, his resolve slipped. But he drew a steadying breath, and waited. From the lieutenant’s darkening expression, he knew that Hanley had deduced what was going on.

The dreaded question erupted, but Saunders was ready this time.

“Sergeant, are you requisitioning another knife…again?”

Smiling around his cigar, smoking ringing around his head, Saunders defiantly replied, “No!” He pivoted and sauntered down the street, oblivious to the stunned silence he left behind.

My war, my rules…at least sometimes.