And so, with the Charlie Brown Christmas Special playing in the background on the TV, she carefully stitched the small brown buttons into place on the face of the bear, then held her handiwork out at arm's length to inspect the overall effect. All that beautiful white fur. The pink ears and paws done in satin. The smile carefully embroidered onto his face and his Army Ranger camo fatigues as letter perfect as she could make them. A sprig of mistletoe and a couple of jingle bells on his boonie cap completed his ‘ensemble.’ Almost done. Another couple of hours work and it would be complete and ready to send to Paul. She took a sip of her hot chocolate and went back to her hand stitching, humming It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas under her breath.

"Here, plant your feet and lean into your shooting platform. Like this.” Paul twisted his battle buddy's torso around a bit more and pushed his feet into the proper stance with the toe of his boot. He adjusted the other man's hand on the front grip, got him into the right balance points for the stance, then stepped back out of the way. “Now, sight in. Breathe in and then relax. Don't anticipate the recoil, it'll throw you off. As you let your breath out, move your finger onto the trigger and squeeze slowly. Stroke her gently. Ancht! Keep your finger off the trigger until you're in position. That's how bad shit happens.” Paul checked up range and down, double checked his hearing protection, and tapped the man on the shoulder. “Okay, you're clear on the line. Fire when ready."

Fuentes did as instructed and fired off a three-round burst while Paul scoped it from the side with a range finder and chuckled as he watched his bunkmate drop three in the center ring kill zone of the target. Marcy to the rescue again. He had debated telling the guys that his girlfriend had taught him to shoot and decided against it. Older officers would take it in stride, but young recruits liked to think they were the next Rambo and the thought of being taught by G.I. Jane tended to get them all excited… in some very not good ways. Better to just send silent thanks to Mars, ‘The Goddess of War’ in this case, for the lessons that got him through ROTC all those years ago. There were advantages to having a dad who was not only a Lifer, but a qualified sharpshooter and weapons instructor. You got schooled early and often. And if you were generous of spirit, which his Mars was, you shared what you knew.

Paul had become one of his unit's top marksmen and been appointed a peer instructor. If he kept up like he was going, he'd be offered the option of going to sniper school. In the meantime, he'd made it his personal mission to ensure every guy in his class got through the shooting requirements. As he was taught, so he now taught. Four weeks down, two more left to get these guys qualified on the line. He stepped up and tapped Fuentes on the shoulder. “Good. Now, what I want you to do next is…"

Good old Physical Training: PT… pushups, situps, squats, and running… everywhere. Apparently, doubletime was the standard speed at bootcamp. All day every day they marched and doubletimed it all over the base and surrounding area building up stamina and strength, turning raw, green recruits into G.I. Joes. Today had been one of the longest so far. A 20-mile march with full packs, up and over the switchbacks of ‘Jake the Snake’ and back. Paul hurt in places he didn't even have and was so tired all he wanted to do was fall into bed and forget what planet he was on for a few hours, but that time was still a ways off yet. A quick shower and mess call and they were back in their bay just in time for a late Mail Call from the company clerk.

Mail Call! At this time of night? Oh well, never look a gift horse in the mouth, especially one bearing cards and letters from home. Paul always looked forward to Mail Call. Every one of the men did. It was a chance to forget the aches and pains, blisters and bruises, and spend a few precious minutes remembering ‘why’ they did what they did. A letter, especially one with a picture of a loved one, was literally what kept a couple of these guys moving forward some days.

But, as much as he loved getting letters from her, there was also that little tinge of fear, too. It was like living with the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head, never knowing when it was going to fall. But, so far, no bear. Maybe Marcy had just been teasing after all. She had a warped sense of humor, his girlfriend did. A couple of weeks back, he'd gotten quite a bit of ribbing over a drawing of a pair of old-fashioned black silk stockings on one letter that had been scented with her best perfume. He smiled and his heart melted all over again at the thought of those, a blush actually creeping up his neck. Stockings (even drawings of stockings), Yes! Bear (of any kind), NO!

"CALLAHAN, Paul James.” The voice rang out and Paul's tired head came up with a snap. A box was lofted over the heads of the guys in front of him and he raised his arms just in time to catch it. A BOX? Mars! He quickly checked the return address and blanched.

The box had obviously been opened and inspected. Instead of taping it back shut, it had just been four-squared on top, and not very carefully done at that. There, right at the top front edge of the box, barely poking out but still visible, was his nightmare come true… white fur! Oh, dear God… she didn't! Oh no! Please Nooooo…

"Hey, Callahan. Whatcha got in da box? Sumptun from home to eat?” a hopeful voice penetrated his adrenalin-muffled ears. What? He started up guiltily from staring into his doom. The box shifted and a small jingly sound… like muffled bells… could be heard from inside.

All over the bay, heads popped up from letters at that question like a bunch of meerkats scenting the wind. Paul looked up and around to see half a dozen of his closest ‘kill-you-and-eat-you-if-necessary’ buddies zero in on him, their grins spreading wide across their expectant faces. Even his Battle Buddy was looking at him funny.

"Uh. Um. No. No brownies. No candy. Nothing to eat, guys. Really.” Paul tried to close up the box so that the bear wasn't visible.

"Yeah, sure. Look at his face. There's something good in that box and he don't wanna share."

"No, it's just something personal from the girlfriend…” Paul realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. He looked from one salivating, predatory grin to the next and all of a sudden understood-better than he ever had before-the concept of fight or flight. Flight won out.

Without a word or a warning he clutched the box to his chest like an all-star running back and sprinted for the door and his escape, ‘the hounds of hell’ hard on his heels, their whooping and war cries echoing off the walls of the hallway outside their bay. It was no contest. He made it down the stairs, past the instructors’ room and out the door onto the frost-encrusted ground outside the barracks, but they caught him there and he went down under a dogpile of bodies. Scuffling. Scrambling. Swearing and sweating. And then the box was ripped from his hands and he was positive that life as he knew it was over.

Paul could hear the tearing of the cardboard, the jingling of the bells, and the whooping of his fellow grunts as they ripped into the box. He was going to kill her. He had begged her not to. Pled with her. He thought she loved him and understood just how bad this was going to be for him. A damned teddy bear. With his luck she'd put lace bloomers or some other ‘dolly drag’ on the blasted thing. He was so totally scre-

"Awwwww… would ya look at this?"

"Where's the brauw-nies?"