This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.

Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 43 (Tues., Jan. 17, Wed., Jan. 18)

Gerry and I waited for Taps to put the guys to bed and to switch off the lights before we took our shower. I think that it was tonight that I actually realized that I would miss tucking my 'boys' in, when we got to our basic unit, and that this chore would probably be assumed by the Drill Sergeants.

We had taught them to take their showers before bedtime rather than in the morning to avoid the rush for cleanliness colliding with all the other morning chores. No matter how logical this was, it left us with a deficit of hot water. Consequently, we showered quickly but used the enema bag and washbasins for our genital hygiene.

In our room, I put a scoop of coal onto the fire since it was getting chilly. The temperature had dropped and it felt like snow. To counteract the cold, body warmth of the other was what we wanted, was what was called for. As the First Aid manual instructed for hypothermia: 'If necessary, use your own body heat…' And, of course, it was necessary.

As opposed to last night, we didn't feel urgent. We would have another night together after this one. And In our lives right now, another night was an eternity.

Our cocks were cuddling, as we held each other close under the scratchy Army blanket. Our tongues were stroking one another, while we breathed in unison. He would breathe out and I in. I was feeding off the air that had been inside him. I loved everything that came from inside my Gerry: his breaths, his tears, his laughs, his cum, his love.

This was the first time I'd fallen for someone who'd reciprocated. Lon had used me as a tool to get attention from his father. As for Bat and Marv, I'd been the go-between they'd used to tell each other what they felt. Haruki saw the experience as something novel, and had to shut me out as soon as he'd found Sean. And I'd always been the listener for Sean. Back when he'd broken up with Janet, I'd listened. And of late, when he'd needed an ear, it was mine he had used.

But now in the most unlikely of places, and with the most unlikely of guys, I'd found peace. And to judge by his actions and responses, so had Gerry. Of a sudden, while lapping at his outer ear with my tongue, I felt the surge of panic.

My mind was playing its 'what-if' games, and the realization of the fact that his being German and my being French would have meant that we would have been ordered to kill each other if we were twenty years older. Just that one thought sent me into an emotional tail spin.

I held on to my Gerry and felt the compulsion to consume some part of him. And the only part readily available was his unborn progeny.

Still on the verge of tears, I slipped down the length of his body under the scratchy blanket, taking in the differing smells, all his, his freshly-washed armpits, his fair-haired chest, his tight belly, his pubic hair, his cock, then the taste. This taste was part of what I was craving to take inside me. My tongue went to work under his foreskin. My mouth drew him in, letting my tongue now bathe his slick crown.

It didn't take much to send him into orgasmic fits as I drained his sperm. I used his cum from my mouth as lube to make his pucker penetrable. With my own cock just barely inside the first ring, I shot and filled his anal entrance to overflowing. Within seconds I was sucking his hole to reclaim my own jizz to mix with his before I swallowed.

***

Our run went without a hitch, as did honoring the colors and breakfast. With a load of time on our hands, Pierson suggested that we GI the barracks to get them presentable for my handing over to the Drill Sergeant, tomorrow. Before I could react, the buckets were being filled in the latrine and frozen mops were being brought back inside to thaw in the hot wash water.

"Excuse me, Sergeant Loughery," Pierson smiled, not jokingly, as he approached. "got any old newspapers?"

"What do you want with old newspapers?" I wondered as I checked, which butt cans needed attention.

"Thought I might as well wash the windows." He pointed to where the winter sun was trying to penetrate the yellowing panes. "'They haven't been cleaned in ages." He was right.

"Okay, Men, listen up." I'd picked up this phrase as 'authentic Army' from Haruki. Never got around to asking him if one could 'listen down', though. "We need some old newspapers to clean the windows with."

"Yo, got some." Moffett, our bear-wrestling hunk from the Adirondacks raised his arm. He got into his locker and produced a stack of newsprint in pink. "Brought it with me from home, so it's over a week old."

Now, if I remember my survival tactics correctly, you just don't ask a 6'5", no-fat, 220-pound, self-proclaimed bear wrestler, why he reads a pink newspaper. Everyone was thinking it, but no one asked it, except for Pierson.

"Well, Little Buddy," I relaxed; his tone was not aggressive but very friendly, so I didn't have to worry about Pierson. "it's because that's the Financial Times, from London, and that's just the way it is. Pink." Now, I was beginning to wonder if Moffett was really as unsophisticated as he let on, since he didn't say: 'London, England'.

He smiled at Pierson. "I'm an economist," So much for country-boy, bear wrestler. "from the village of Malone, which is the county seat of Franklin County, up on the Canadian border." And which I knew to be some two hours by car from either Ottawa or Montreal and in the middle of the most beautiful scenery anyone could imagine. In fact, his home was closer to the capital cities of Canada and Quebec than it was to the capital of New York State by about another hour's drive.

"So, what are you doing here?" I asked with just a hint of wanting to know why he didn't go to Canada.

He laughed. "Because, when I get out, I'm going to use the GI Bill to work on my Masters at McGill."

I became very curious. "And I'll bet you speak French, too." He nodded as he wadded up the newsprint for drying the windows, which Pierson had already started to wash. "Don't think that I saw you at language testing, the other day."

Moffett grinned his aw-shucks grin. "They don't haffta know everything, now do they?" Of course, this made me wonder what else he was hiding.

And it also made me wonder, as I made my way over to the Orderly Room to turn in today's roll call, if it possibly would have been better not to have taken some of the tests, myself.

***

By the time we were ready for lunch, the barracks was sparkling; my guys were in high spirits. As a treat, I asked Morton to march us over to the mess hall. He really made the march enjoyable, since he very intelligently varied the cadence he called. Today, however, we got some unwanted cadre attention.

"I don't know, but I've been told," he sang melodiously.

"I don't know, but I've been told," we responded.

"That Canada and Sweden are mighty cold." Morton was smiling for what it was worth.

That Canada and Sweden are--" Before we could respond, a busy-body Sergeant stopped us, by getting in front of the marching formation and blowing his whistle. The first thing I noticed was that he was not wearing a Drill Sergeant's Campaign Hat; he just had a whistle.

"Who's in charge here?" he screamed with his hands on his hips.

I was already coming up from the back. "I am." I yelled back without the hysterical tinge, the Sergeant had.

"Did you authorize this man," He pointed at Morton. "to sing this cadence?"

"I did." Morton looked surprised. "What about it?"

"He's inciting the troops to desert." He was in my face, still pointing with his whistle.

"That's bullshit, Sergeant." Now, that stopped him in his tracks.

"Do you know who I am?" Capillaries were starting to pop in his cheeks, be it from the cold or his frenzy.

I laughed at him. "Was just about to ask you that very same question."

"I am the aide-de-camp of the Battalion Commander." His importance rose in his own eyes.

No matter what, I felt a strange affinity to Haruki again for his detailed instructions and support before trading me in for Sean. Thanks to Haruki I replied with confidence: "That's bullshit, too." I laughed again. "You are a Buck Sergeant; an aide-de-camp is always a commissioned officer." I watched his fury grow and enjoyed it. "And which Battalion Commander do you work for?"

"Third Battalion, 3rd BCT Brigade." He stated, but noticed a deuce and a half, that had had to stop because my troops were blocking the road.

"Platoon, AT-TEN-HUT!" I yelled and they snapped to attention. "Left, FACE!" They did. "Forward, MARCH!" Only seconds later, I yelled: "Platoon, HALT!" I smiled at the face of the imposing Sergeant. "About, FACE! - At EASE!"

Probably about this time, he realized that no one was taking him seriously. But when the clearly older truck driver gave me the thumbs-up and yelled: "Nice one, Kid. Thanks." it was pretty much settled.

The thumb of my right hand was still pointing skyward. "You do realize," I brought my hand down, thinking that I was getting the hang of using military sarcasm quite well. "That this is 3rd Platoon, Bravo Company, 5th Battalion, 3rd BCT Brigade." I cleared my throat. "I repeat we are under the command of the 5th Battalion, not the 3rd Battalion." I let that sink in and called Morton.

"Yes, Sergeant Loughery." He was standing right behind me, and it sounded as if he could break out laughing.

"Get these men fed!"

***

The First Sergeant was in, and in a fairly good mood. The Buck Sergeant started speaking out of turn, making a big fuss of Morton's cadence. I caught Top looking at the Sergeants blank right shoulder. He also caught me eyeing the Sergeant shoulder for a patch revealing his last combat unit; there was none.

"And what do you have to say, Sergeant Loughery?" Top wanted to know with a scowl, belying the friendliness in his tone.

I repeated the exact cadence. "Private Morton was only varying the cadence to point out that Canada and Sweden are cold, foreign countries, and that the troops are much better off where they are." Of course, I was spouting off the first thing that came to mind, but it did make First Sergeant's scowl turn to a smirk. "Besides the Sergeant, here, claims to be aide-de-camp to the Commander of the 3rd Battalion, which, I believe, is impersonating an officer."

"Thanks, Dr. Loughery," He smiled as he saw me glancing at the cupcake with one burning candle next to the telephone. "that'll be all. Go get some lunch."

I took my leave and had hardly cleared the Orderly Room's front stoop when I heard the familiar booming voice tear into the pretentious 'aide-de-camp', asking the same old redundant questions of why he'd thought it to be a good idea to hassle his troops.

***

Standing out in the formation area outside the mess hall, sharing a cigarette with Gerry, I related to him, Morton, Pierson and Moffett the story, which was met with nods of approval for how the First Sergeant took care of us. And then I told them about the cupcake next to Top's telephone.

"Sure wish we could do something for him." Morton shook his head but was clueless as to what.

"Wait a minute," Pierson spoke up. "we could sing 'Happy Birthday'." He looked into our skeptical faces. "I sometimes led the choir in high school."

"Hey, Tinkerbelle might be onto something." Moffett said, giving the kid a good-natured punch, making Pierson grin, despite himself.

"Think you can get the guys to sing, Pierson?" I questioned, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Then, do it!"

***

When we arrived at the Orderly Room, I saw First Sergeant talking to someone in a Campaign Hat, possibly our new Drill Sergeant. I called the platoon to a halt, to face right and into parade rest. Pierson scampered to the front and hummed the first note so we could get on key. If the kid didn't have perfect pitch, it was damned close.

By this time, First Sergeant, the Captain, the Company Clerk and the Staff Sergeant with the Campaign Hat were all looking out the windows, laughing. The harmony was surprisingly good, as we stood in the now driving snow, singing 'Happy Birthday' to our First Sergeant.

We were hardly finished when they were all, with the exception of the Company Clerk, standing in front of us. We finished, and I call them to attention. "At ease." the Captain said with a hitch in his voice. "Let me turn this over to Top."

"Thank you for the birthday greetings. And, Sergeant Loughery, I take it that this is NOT your doing, once again?"

"That is correct, First Sergeant, it was Private Pierson's." I told him truthfully. "We were just following his lead."

Top laughed and wiped his left eye with his gloved hand. "I would like to inform all of 3rd Platoon that the Captain, your new Drill Instructor, Sergeant Healy," He gestured to the man to his left. "and I went over to have a look at your barracks while you were at lunch." He wiped his left eye again. "My only regret is that you won't be around any longer than tomorrow." His voice caught slightly; he paused.

I looked at Sergeant Healy, who was standing at parade rest next to Top. The man had a serious wound on his neck, which was fresh enough to stand out like a red traffic light in the cold. But despite the disfigurement, he had a relatively serene, if not kind face. "Sergeant Healy is Special Forces and I consider this platoon to be worthy of such an excellent instructor. Sergeant Healy, it's all yours."

"Thank you, Top." He had an effort to speak loudly. "Now, listen up.I need two volunteers. Do I hear any volunteers."

Forty eight men said in unison: "Yes, Drill Sergeant."

The Drill Sergeant shook his head in disbelief. He glanced at the First Sergeant who was restraining a smile, as if he would either break into laughter or into tears any second. The Captain was trying unsuccessfully not to grin.

He approached me, trying to look frightening. "You pick the volunteers."

"Myself and Private Helmstedter, Drill Sergeant." I saw the Captain and Top out of the corner of my eye, chuckling silently. Haruki was right: when asked to pick volunteers always include yourself first. He was going to pick me anyway, and the brownie points are priceless.

"God damn it!" He looked at me directly in the eye; I kept his stare. "You've had training before." It wasn't a question and didn't require an answer. "What unit were you with?"

Dilemma: I couldn't tell him that a crazy Japanese-Cuban from Greenwich Village who had serious issues with anything military due to having been terrorized by his retired Lieutenant-Colonel father had taught me everything I knew about the Army to keep my ass out of a sling and that my lover, Gerry, had supplemented that knowledge while we were messing up the sheets, so I had to go with the quarter-truth, which was circulating, anyway. "The French Foreign Legion, Drill Sergeant."