"I have been meaning to talk to you about getting a new driver . . ." said the colonel, letting some of his tension go. The situation was just too stupid and petty to get really angry about.

"Oh? Really?" The sergeant major chuckled.

"It's not so much the fact that he is so damn stupid," the colonel continued, resignedly. The Smaj would have his little laugh. "It's that when he's not arrogant, he's obsequious."

"Well, Colonel," said the NCO, taking off his Kevlar helmet and scratching his head. A flurry of dandruff drifted off in the cold wind. Basic personal hygiene complete, he took care settling the helmet on his head and getting all the straps back in place. The chinstrap was greasy against his chin, the well-worn canvas soaked with skin oils after the long field problem. "The sergeant major is only an enlisted man and we're not cleared to know what obsequious means. But if you mean he's a little ass-kisser, that's why he got the job in the first place. That and he's a hell of a runner; Colonel Wasserman was big on running." The ebony Buddha, a noted runner himself, smiled contentedly. From his point of view this was the last item that needed major repair in the whole battalion.

"Colonel Wasserman came within a hair's breadth of being relieved for cause and is currently headed for the street," snorted the colonel. He and the sergeant major had tried to bring the soldier up to the standard that they expected but it just had not happened. Reynolds just seemed to be one of those soldiers best suited for the "Old Guard." He looked great during inspections, but just could not get his head out of his ass when it came to combat training. Horner sighed in resignation, realizing that there were some situations that training would not solve.

"In general I use the following criteria," he continued. "If Colonel Wasserman thought it was a great idea, I try to go in the exact opposite direction. In a way it's too bad I can't follow him through the rest of my career, it's like a guiding light. Move Reynolds out gracefully. Give him a nice letter, your signature, not mine, and send him back to Charlie company. Find a good replacement. God help us if we had to go to war with this bozo."

There was a period of silence as the two leaders listened to the falling precipitation. It seemed to have settled for sleet, but there were occasional flurries of snow and still a little freezing rain. In the distance there was a rumble of artillery from the Corp artillery having its bi-yearly live fire bash. Weather like this was good training for the cannon-cockers. Good training was an army euphemism for any situation that was miserable and, preferably, screwed up. Their present predicament met all the requirements for "good training."

"Where the hell is the jeep?" asked the colonel, resignation echoing in every tone.

Coming down the road was a sight that would have been comical in other circumstances. Reynolds was tall and slender. Walking with him, carrying a gigantic overstuffed rucksack, was a short—Horner later learned he was five feet two inches tall—incredibly wide soldier. He looked like some camouflage-covered troll or hobgoblin. His oversized "Fritz" helmet and, when he got near enough to see, equally oversized nose completed the picture. Under one arm he carried a large chunk of pine, easily weighing seventy or eighty pounds and his face bore a deep frown. He looked far more annoyed than the colonel or sergeant major.

"Specialist, hmm, O'Neal, one of the mortar squad leaders," the sergeant major whispered as they approached. He climbed out of the jeep and the colonel followed, getting ready to deliver a world-class ass chewing, Horner style.

"Sir," said Reynolds, continuing his saga of despair, "when I arrived at the weapons platoon, I found all the vehicles were gone to refuel . . . " As he spoke O'Neal walked to the rear of the jeep without a word or a greeting to the senior officer or NCO. There he dropped the log and his pack and grasped the bumper. He squatted, then straightened, lifting the corner of the thousand-pound jeep into the air with an exhalation.

"Yeah, we can do this," he said with a grunt and tossed the jeep back into the mud. It bounced on its springs and splattered Reynolds with more of the cold glutinous clay. O'Neal's actions had effectively shut off the flow from Reynolds. "Good afternoon, sir, sergeant major," O'Neal said. He did not salute. Despite standing division orders to do so, the 82nd continued the tradition of considering a salute in the field a "sniper check" and thus a bad thing to train for.

The sergeant major stuck out his hand. "Howarya, O'Neal." He was astounded at the return grip strength. He had dealt with O'Neal peripherally but had never appreciated the specialist's almost preternatural condition. The baggy BDUs apparently hid a body made of pure muscle.

"Specialist," said the colonel, sternly, "that was not a good idea. Let's try to think safe, okay? Rupturing a gut would just make a bad situation worse." He cocked his head to the side like a blue-eyed falcon, pinning the soldier with his most arctic stare.

"Yes, sir, I guessed you would say that," said the specialist, the officer's stare bouncing off him like rain off steel. He worked a bit of dip over to one side and spit carefully. "Sir, with all due respect," he drawled, "I work out with this much weight every damn day. I've lifted the gun jeeps before for exercise, I even clean jerked one, once. I just wanted to make sure the extra radios didn't make it too heavy. We can do this. I lift it, the sergeant major slides the log underneath, we change the tire, reverse the procedure and you're outta here."

The colonel peered down at the specialist for a moment. The specialist looked back up with a matching scowl, the bit of dip bulging his lower lip. The colonel's scowl deepened for a moment, a sure sign of amusement. He carefully did not ask why the sergeant major was sliding the log under the jeep instead of the driver. Apparently O'Neal had the same opinion of Reynolds that he and the sergeant major did.

"You have a first name, O'Neal?" asked the colonel.

"Michael, sir," stated the specialist. He moved the dip to the other side. Other than that his expression of terminal annoyance did not flicker.

"Michael or Mike?" asked the colonel with a deepening scowl.

"Mike, sir."

"Nickname?"

Reluctantly, "Mighty Mite."

As the sergeant major chuckled the colonel scowled fiercely, "Well, Specialist O'Neal, I reluctantly approve this procedure."

"How're we gonna break the bolts?" asked the sergeant major. That had been wearing on his mind more than lifting the jeep. There were plenty of things to use for levers if necessary but not a lug wrench to be seen.

Specialist O'Neal reached into his cargo pocket and with a flourish withdrew a crescent wrench all of eight inches long.

"Good luck," snorted Reynolds, "they got put on at Brigade with an impact wrench."

A smile violated the frown on O'Neal's face for a moment. He knelt in the mud, cold water seeping into the fabric of his BDUs, adjusted the wrench and applied it to the nut. He drew a deep breath and let it out with a "Saaa!" His arm drove forward like a mechanical press and, with a shriek of stressed steel, the nut loosened.

"Craftsman," he said, relaxing and letting the rest of the breath out slowly, "when you care enough to use the very best." He spit another bit of dip out, deftly spun the nut loose and started on the next.

The colonel scowled, but there was a twinkle in his normally cold azure eyes. He turned to be unobserved and gave the sergeant major a wink. They had found their new driver.

* * *

"Howarya, Mike?" General Horner asked, as the approaching figure brought him back from memory lane. He extended his hand.

Mike shifted the cedar box under his arm and took the outstretched hand. "Fine, sir, fine. How are the wife and kids?"