III: Step Lively!

Much too cheery for the situations when officers always choose to use it. In torrential rain, perhaps. In mud. In heat. In snow. In pain. The sort of command that makes mutiny inviting to everyone, simply because of the necessary context of the phrase. So when that unfit, sweating, pork-fisted, swine-snouted, untried son of a bitch dared to say it to me it didn't matter that the two of us were out there in the golden sunshine, wearing good, clean clothes and well-fed on good, wholesome food. I heard the words and I was wounded, I was tired, I was surrounded by men and women who stank of sweat, piss, mud, rain and hopelessness and shuddered in the mire, wondering whether those puddles were of water or of blood, and even then, whose? In short, I was fucking furious.

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” I snarled at him. “Don't you bloody well speak to me again.”

“Only when you pick up the pace, Pretty.”

He grinned. His face swelled and gleamed and invited the punch; I swore aloud when I missed; bigass git ducked and darted away far too fast.

“See? Too slow.”

He didn't deserve a response. Ignorant bastard, thinking he could taunt me and get away with it, thinking rolling around in the mud in a forest the enemy never reached made him a military man. He didn't know the first thing about survival. He didn't know the first thing about command or stepping lively. That was why they'd paired us up together. That was why they'd made us partners for the next few weeks. They thought I could teach him a thing or two. They thought this was a jolly fine idea.

Damn them to hell.