Barracks Bitch

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SLEEPER

Their upcoming attack using Battle Drill 2, specifically a 2-328 Raid, on the compound didn't have much chance of success. The skills of the Charlies, who Sleeper now knew served as defenders, were roughly equivalent to the skills of the Bravos in head to head combat. Neither side had weapons, so any advantage there was off the table. Numbers were in favor of the Charlies because for some reason the Bravos were down one Assmunch, one Weeble, and one Bootlicker - two strategists and a wildcard removed from the game board. Terrain and fortification benefited the defenders, at least initially. And the Bravos faced another deficit - battlefield communication. The Bravos had no way to adjust their movements and attacks during the battle so deploying troops to take advantage of weaknesses that opened up could only happen if a squad saw it, which was unlikely when the majority of their individual attention would be on their own individual struggle. The point was being able to operate and make battlefield decisions in the moment toward the mission goal when there was lack of command or radio silence.

Sleeper was doing the math in his head and it would take a miracle to break through multiple layers of defense. Maybe he should have gone with a full platoon frontal assault or even a three squad multi directional. While both the Charlies and the Bravos had their physical powerhouses, no one could match Troll and Zeus, especially if you added in Demon's support for Troll and Sleeper's coordination with Zeus. Those two could tie up three enemies each and make a hole in defenses like a knife cutting through butter.

Sleeper thoroughly hated the decisions a battle commander was forced to make. He felt much more comfortable as second in command. It was easy when you had smart leaders like Assmunch and Bootlicker. The two of them had different approaches but both saw ways to take advantage of strengths and minimize weaknesses. And Sleeper didn't discount the power of confidence and commitment in a chosen course of action. Bootlicker was always, in everything, so sure he was right that often what seemed like a terrible idea at first ended up working by sheer determination. Bootlicker forced a square peg in a round hole because that's what he wanted to happen and he didn't accept that the round hole wouldn't cooperate. That square peg was going in, period. It also helped that Bootlicker loved to cheat, mostly because he didn't see it as cheating.

"There's no such thing as cheating." Bootlicker explained once. "If you don't take advantage of everything you can, you aren't trying. It's stupid to avoid a solution just because it's unfair, or it'll piss someone off, or it wasn't in the instructions we were given. Fuck that bullshit. Limits are for losers. If you want to win, then fucking win. The bullshit you deal with when you lose doesn't feel any different than the bullshit you deal with when you cheat to win. So fucking win. Bullshit is going to be there anyway, may as well get something out of it. And I don't know about you, but in our line of work losing means getting dead, so, well... I'm not doing that."

He had a point, Sleeper knew. However, Bootlicker didn't see value in working within given restrictions. Normal people couldn't operate the way Bootlicker did because Bootlicker didn't care about consequences. Sleeper secretly suspected Bootlicker did half the shit he did because he wanted to find out what the consequences would be. No one could figure out why the fuck someone like Bootlicker wanted to join the Army or how the fuck he was even allowed to stay in. Maybe the Army didn't know about the worst stuff Bootlicker did. But he sure got chewed out enough for the stuff they did know about, plenty of counseling, non judicial punishments, even disciplinary actions in his service record. Boy, Sarge worked overtime trying to come up with new and brutal punishment duties for Bootlicker, anything that might crack his smug, unbothered reaction to being caught. Bootlicker just did whatever Sarge ordered him to do without blinking or complaining. He cut the grass outside their barracks with a pair scissors - the entire 20 by 30 foot swath. He filled an entire water buffalo with a single 1.5 gallon bucket. That particular water tanker had a one thousand gallon capacity. He did it from a spigot on another water buffalo 200 yards away. Or there was the time he had to clean the parking lot at Command. Spotless. No weeds in the cracks, no loose gravel, no oil or fluid stains on the asphalt. Sarge always tasked one of his minion Sergeants Bravo to be Bootlicker's minder during these punishments. Ordinary soldiers wouldn't need a minder, but Bootlicker liked to cheat. So one of the Sergeants Bravo would pester him continuously throughout the day. Maybe Bootlicker had the right approach, at least for the Army. If losing meant you or your brothers might die, and cheating gave you an edge to keep that from happening, why wouldn't you do it?

Sleeper forced himself away from that thought. Losing someone during his command was what he feared the most. Losing one of his brothers at all was too disturbing to give thought to.

Assmunch was completely different. He didn't exactly accept loss, only the fact that it was possible. Assmunch was the opposite of Bootlicker. Where Bootlicker only looked at ways to succeed and used every trick to make that happen, Assmunch considered all the ways things could go wrong and fail and adjusted his plans to eliminate those possibilities, which often left a direct path to success. Sleeper guessed that was where Assmunch's confidence came from. For him, there was only one good answer and he knew it would work if everyone did their part. And then, he trusted his men to pull their weight. In Assmunch's eyes you had value, you were necessary, he needed you and what you could do. In contrast to Sarge constantly screaming how stupid you were, how incompetent, what a colossal failure you were in the Army's eyes, Assmunch made you feel important, that you directly contributed to everyone's success. It made a huge difference in individual effort. Assmunch inspired.

That was something Sleeper hadn't learned to do yet, inspire his men. He gave orders, made decisions, asked for input, all of it. But they didn't look at him with trust and belief like they did with Assmunch. Maybe because Assmunch always looked for a way to do the right thing and Sleeper didn't. Assmunch agonized over it sometimes. But there was a distinction between how Assmunch focused on that and Sleeper accepted sometimes the option to do the right thing was available, and sometimes it wasn't and you still had to do the job.

Sleeper gave a small sigh. Leadership. Something he'd only realized as he grew older, just before he joined the Army. Wrestling had been good for that, with coaches, team captains, thinking about strategies for winning as a team not just individually. If there was anything that demonstrated leadership it was that a leader considered how a team could achieve a goal while arranging the skills of individuals to their best effect. It was funny how he'd run away to join the Army thinking it would help him avoid responsibility, and instead ended up feeling responsible for these men around him, his brothers. And fuck Assmunch for making him Platoon second.

So now he lay prone under a shrub, something called Privet, in the dark searching for any other option. They'd discussed a hidden squad sneaking in from another vector while the main body of Bravos created an attack diversion. But Zeus didn't `sneak' and he was their only guaranteed physical attack dominator. Weeble could sneak, so could Bootlicker and Wanker. Shark was pretty good too. But none of them had the sure ability to overwhelm defenders and if Sleeper were choosing someone to defend the inner part of the compound it would be their best fighters. A three man squad would be the minimum, two to create the hole, one to penetrate to the objective.

Sleeper growled. Committing to a planned attack strategy without second guessing at the last minute was so fucking frustrating! It was one thing when you knew your plan could succeed. Try committing to an attack strategy you knew would lose. Everything in him was fighting moving forward with this disaster.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin as he screamed in a whisper "FUCK!" While he rolled to his feet and got caught in the privet bush.

"Sorry Sleeper." Weeble said in a whisper. Or rather, the ugly lump of leaves and pinestraw said it with Weeble's voice.

"Weeble?" He whispered back. "What the fuck, man? Where the hell have you been? How long have you been here? What the fuck? I mean... what the FUCK?"

"SHHHHH, Sleeper! I can't stay. Just wanted to let you know there's a whole warehouse underground, it's huge. If you want in, just go in any of the buildins. There's lifts. Hard to find, just look for a button on the wall. Good luck!" And the pile of leaves and pine straw scuttled away a couple feet without anything more than a slight rustle of sound. "Oh! Don't get caught, prolly better let Bootlicker and Wanker handle it. Pretty sure you ain't s'posed to know about it." And then the form disappeared in the dark.

Motherfucker. Fifteen seconds. That's all the time the interaction took. He'd let his guard down, let his mind wander. A potential enemy had caught him unaware. That was how he had to look at it, even though it was Weeble. And where the fuck was his compound instructor and Zeus in all this? Out of the three of them someone should have noticed Weeble sneaking up. The trouble was he couldn't spare personnel for a rear guard perimeter, they were too spread out and he had to devote everyone he had to the attack drill. In any battle drill there were assumptions. In this one, a forward platoon attack on fixed defensive positions your six was assumed to be guarded by friendly forces with little to no enemy potential. That would change during the drill as they engaged and each squad had to keep a lookout around them for potential encirclement. Even so, Sarge would have his fucking balls on a plate for this if he knew Weeble had so easily snuck up. It was exactly the sort of dirty trick Sarge would play. It was exactly something Seargeant Horvath would do as well. He could send an assassin in the dark to take out command personnel and leave the Bravos scrambling.

It was too late to revise their attack plan to take advantage of Weeble's information. But if he had a chance during the upcoming battle he'd spread the word hoping someone could get inside one of the buildings. Weeble's mysterious appearance did remove one worry from his mind. He already knew Assmunch was inside the compound, possibly a hostage, and recovery was a third tier goal, however unlikely. Sleeper mentally reviewed 2-328 for the 18th time:

RAID

2-328. A raid is a limited-objective, deliberate operation entailing swift penetration of hostile terrain. A raid is not intended to hold territory; and it requires detailed intelligence, preparation, and planning. The Infantry platoon and squad conducts raids as part of a larger force to accomplish a number of missions, including the following -

• Capture prisoners, installations, and/or enemy materiel.

• Capture or destroy specific enemy command and control locations.

• Destroy enemy materiel or installations.

• Obtain information concerning enemy locations, dispositions,

strength, intentions, or methods of operation.

• Confuse the enemy or disrupt his plans.

• Liberate friendly personnel.

So Assmunch would likely remain a prisoner as his liberation was not a primary objective.

Bootlicker had disappeared from his squad mid-afternoon and was MIA. But Weeble had been seen on a few occasions early during the day running through the woods. Sightings grew more infrequent as the day wore on until no one knew where he was in the last few hours leading up to this drill. But now that Sleeper knew Weeble was accounted for, he felt better. He didn't worry about Bootlicker much, disappearing and doing his own thing was what Bootlicker did. Sometimes it benefitted the Bravos, sometimes it was just a crazy scheme Bootlicker wanted to enact. In this drill Bootlicker's presence wouldn't add much, and just maybe he was off trying to figure out a way to succeed or implementing it or more likely figuring out a way to screw up whatever Objective the Charlies were given. Unless he needed your help in his scheme, you never knew what he was doing.

He glanced at his watch and noted it was two minutes to execution of the drill. He wondered if the Charlies had been informed of the exact moment of execution. Probably not, they were obviously tasked with defense of a fixed position with their own objectives. It wouldn't help them develop and hone their skills if they knew when the fight was coming to them. He did have to chuckle when he thought how stupid Hollywood movies were. Ops command used absolute time to coodinate a battle or attack, GMT or Greenwich Mean Time, regardless of global position. The men on the ground used a countdown. There was no `everyone, synchronize your watches.' That was useless and a group that trained together frequently would laugh at that. If every single one of you weren't using the exact same timepiece in the exact same condition there was no synchronization, it just wasn't possible. Troops used for engagement depended upon real time intel at the target location to execute. If a support function was necessary like air or artillery they'd wait for a green go from command, but it was up to field commanders to set it all in motion which could be minutes later. Getting in position, signaling readiness, a last minute check on sitreps meant actual execution time was variable when your attack forces were dispersed. Without comms it was hard to know what was happening elsewhere so you executed your part with the blind trust assumption that at least one other squad would be successful.

In an ordinary drill, the cue for Battle Drill 2 would be the enemy's initiation of direct fire contact, which they wouldn't have in this exercise as there were no weapons in use. By not having weapons all steps up to Step 11 in the Battle Drill were assumed to be a YES which took care of suppressive fire and positioning on the enemy.

Sleeper wouldn't have much to do on this drill as Platoon leader until the Bravos could draw in. Whoever survived the initial defense would dictate Sleeper's next move, as well as whatever enemy forces survived and how and where they regrouped.

The sharp rat-tat-tat of weapons fire broke the night's silence. Without thinking, his training kicked in and it didn't matter that they had been told there would be no weapons fire. That was the cue for execution, and he cursed the fact that the Charlies knew that too. Fuck. Of course the element of surprise would be eliminated. Motherfuckers. He and the rest of the Bravos broke cover and ran for the perimeter of the compound.

This wasn't going to be some honor system of `I got you, you're dead' and expecting the enemy to stay down. No, this was live combat to disable and injuries were going to be sustained. They knew enough to avoid breaking bones that would take weeks to heal, but everything else was fair game.

Sleeper saw Zeus running for his target out of the corner of his eye, so he knew to take the other guy who was crouched and ready. It was too dark to see which of the Charlies it was but he wasn't worried. Only two of the Charlies could match him hand to hand and this guy wasn't either one of them. He didn't even spare a thought of doubt for Zeus's chances of success. Both of these guys would be moaning in pain for the next couple hours after he and Zeus got done with them.

"Goddammit!" Zeus's opponent yelled just before Zeus knocked him from his feet with a tucked shoulder to sail four feet through the air and slam onto his back. Zeus had never played football, but the tackle wasn't half bad. Before he could even catch his breath Zeus had him face down and was tying his wrists and ankles.

Sleeper had to grapple with his opponent for fifteen seconds or so, but he eventually body slammed the guy to the ground. "Don't wait for me, Zeus, I'll be right behind you." he said as he tied his opponent up and dragged him away from the other one. If they weren't in too much pain they'd both eventually scoot together and free each other from the ropes, but by then it was Sleeper's hope the battle would be over.

The compound lights chose that moment to extinguish, and they plunged into darkness.

"Fuck me, this - Ungh - sucks donkey - mmmmgghhhh - dicks." Zeus's victim grunted with gasps. "That was the worst, oh God, I'm gonna die."

"Pussy. Grunts don't die, we aren't that lucky." Sleeper laughed as he climbed to his feet. He gave the guy a hard kick to the ass as he passed him.

"I hate you." Were the final words Sleeper heard as he moved forward toward his last visual of Zeus just before he felt a fist hit the back of his neck just below his skull and he went unconscious.

SHARK

Being a squad leader had one benefit above all others: you didn't have to follow some stupid other squad leader's dumb plan that would get you deaded. Did it matter that you still had to follow your Platoon leader's dumb plan that was also going to get you deaded? Did it matter if it was your LT's dumb plan? He sighed. There was a certain amount of relief when command KNEW it probably wouldn't work. Battlefields were filled with desperate maneuvers that had slim probabilities of success.

In any operation you had personnel who were critical to the success of the dumb plan, and then there was everyone else. The sacrifices. He mentally corrected himself. Sacrifices, with a capital `S'. Sacrifices had a part to play, and beyond that their role was minimized. Someone long ago figured out battle plans flowed smoother when you didn't expect too much from the grunts. Taking a position and providing suppressing fire for a squad or unit that had critical personnel tasked with the mission objective was the usual. The Sacrifices didn't have to know what the ultimate objective was, they just had to hold a position. Support. Sit and Suck. Suffer. A lot of S-words, a lot of F-words, and a whole lot of feeling underutilized knowing the rest of your unit was doing the fun stuff.

The minute the lights cut out he knew their chances of success went right down the toilet. They had no night vision gear. His three man squad or anyone else would never be able to see the signal. Assumptions would kill you every time and in this case it was their assumption that they'd have visibility.

He sighed again. No plan survived first contact with the enemy. Time to get creative. Mobility was crucial.

He turned to Wanker and Dumbo. "Remember the first month at Graf?" He asked, referring to one of their initial small squad drills in Germany, just after they'd all been assembled as a new Platoon and taken through Sarge's ball crushing evaluations. "The urban noose?"

"Yeah." Wanker said. "This is sorta like that. What about it?"

"Remember how Demon fucked up Sarge's plan by just being a complete maniac?"

Wanker snorted. "That's why we called him Demon. How are we gonna work it?"

Shark smiled, exposing how he got his nickname, his trademark fucked up teeth. "Havoc. You and me, Wanker. Dumbo, pick your moment carefully. If we can't see beyond ten feet, neither can they. Wanker, you know some of the Charlie's moves and what they call them, right? Move fast and don't engage unless you can cripple, leave that to me. You just focus on making them deviate with new orders. It'll depend on how well we can convince them we're Charlies. No contact long enough for them to figure it out, okay?"

"Copy" Wanker said.

"Copy" Dumbo repeated.

While every battle drill had its official designation, well drilled units up to the Platoon level in Infantry often had their own name for them. Like Battle Drill 8, Minesweeper. Deeper levels of sub drills just got confusing if you called out a bunch of numbers. Wanker was going to pass along all the conflicting orders he could manage.

"Let's go, we're going to give the Brotherhood a fighting chance. With any luck, our boys will know what's up." With that, Shark broke cover and tore off to the right where he'd seen Sleeper and Zeus make their charge. The Charlies wanted darkness? Well that didn't only work in their favor. Defensive positions had a specific weakness in that the troops had to maintain that position.

Maybe Sleeper's plan wasn't so dumb, holding back half the teams for a staggered attack pattern. The Charlies would hear attacks happening at other approaches while half of their teams would have to wait in position knowing they couldn't abandon their defense point in favor of providing support to others. If the lights were still on, Shark would not have been able to divert. They'd be seen and the Charlies would be able to reposition. And there wasn't a long window Shark could delay moving.

In seconds they were standing with their backs to the building wall and Shark darted his head around the corner to assess. Two bodies on the ground, hog tied, scrambling to move towards each other. Their dimensions did not match Zeus or Sleeper's profiles.

"Two disabled. We'll need to do something to delay them getting free." Shark whispered.

"I got it." Dumbo replied. "You two stay on the move. I'll try to follow the sounds and find you. But I know the plan. It might even been better if I'm a few seconds behind you spreading different intel than what you're telling them. No one will be able to figure out what the fuck's going on."

"Copy." Shark replied before darting around the corner with Wanker on his heels. As if by silent agreement, he and Wanker gave each of the disabled Charlies a medium kick as they jumped past, eliciting grunts of pain from them.

Another body lay fifteen feet away and it was beautiful the way Wanker immediately mirrored his split-second re-direct to slam his back against the building. By now the practiced movements to clear a position forced an automatic sequence of action. Their brains didn't even have to think about what they'd seen. With two bodies hog tied, the third should have been as well. Unless the third wasn't a Charlie. But their brains didn't have to think that far. All it had to do was say `different' and training took over. Caution. Assess. Clear the room. Six was clear. 9 o'clock was clear. Body at 12 o'clock. Unknown at their blind 3 o'clock.

He held up a hand and made several motions. Wanker responded with the Bravos' hand sign for `acknowledge' before darting to their 9. The absence of weaponry simplified what they had to do. Wanker was bait and recon. If there was a Charlie lying in wait around the corner, he saw Wanker and knew that Wanker could see him. If the Charlie abandoned his protected position to strike, then Shark could disable him. If the Charlie followed his training, he wouldn't move towards Wanker until checking for an ambush and Wanker could engage.

Now, Wanker wasn't the best at combatives but with Shark it was two on one. The smart move would be for the Charlie to evade and escape. And there was a Charlie, single, as Wanker's hand signal flashed. He returned the sign for `flank' and stepped outside an arm's reach past the corner as Wanker moved.

The Charlie was no fool and he knew he was a goner in a two against one so he leapt backwards and made to run.

"Give it up, Devreaux." Shark said running after him after he recognized the face. "We'll just tie you up and won't beat you. If you make us chase you it's gonna hurt."

"Just gotta keep you busy, Snaggletooth." Devreaux said. "Already took your pretty boy off the game board."

So, it was Sleeper lying there unconscious. Idiot. It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened. Zeus and Sleeper depended way too much on strength and power. Devreaux had let Zeus pass, wisely, in favor of incapacitating Sleeper in an ambush. Instead of moving forward with caution to clear the position, they rushed and Sleeper fell into a trap. That was a rookie mistake and Sleeper should have been past the point where he made those. At least Zeus made the right call and moved forward without Sleeper.

Devreaux was fast and Shark knew he couldn't catch him, which was going to throw a wrench in their plan. Shark was just about to call off pursuit and divert when Dumbo came out of the darkness ahead and clotheslined Devreaux, sending the Charlie horizontal to slam into the packed earth.

"Damn, that had to hurt. Give him two for running, Dumbo. Wanker, we move." Shark commanded.

They darted through the compound from fighting group to defensive positions, running fast enough to avoid identification. Wanker would throw out a drill nickname, cycling between three of the Charlies' drills, leaving confusion in their wake. Frequently they came across Bravos. Like sonar, when they saw the form of a soldier Shark let out a low tch' sound with his tongue behind his teeth. An answering tch' was the Bravos sign of friendly. If there was no answer, Wanker just whispered Beanbag', or Harvest' or `Barbarian'.

Shark had no idea what drills or maneuvers those terms referenced, but the deception worked. How would anyone know a Platoon's customized playbook well enough to give battlefield orders, except a member of their own Platoon? Fuck those Charlies. Training was a beautiful thing, especially when you could use it against the enemy. No one questioned trusted orders on the battlefield, not if they wanted to keep their stripes. It was a good lesson for the Charlies to learn. Establishing an accompanying password or code, some secret gesture or sound helped. The Charlies just had the rotten luck to have their secrets stolen by two crafty spies. Bootlicker and Wanker proved their worth again and again with their infiltration and intel. A lesser leader than Assmunch would have clamped down on the questionable activities of those two. But Assmunch had seen their talent for trouble as an asset. The Bravos didn't even care anymore when they paid the price as a unit for something Bootlicker or Wanker had done. One time Shark overheard Assmunch telling those two `stop fucking getting caught like you're stupid grunts. You're not, so do better."

After sowing what chaos they could, Shark led Wanker and Dumbo in a jog to the position they were supposed to maintain. Whatever Bravos were left would assault the center. All the action was a good distance away and they only had to watch for stragglers and pick off any Charlies trying to reposition. The three of them wouldn't be useful in direct engagement anyway. The Bravos had tanks like Zeus, Troll, Cellblock and Chunk for that, supported by terrors like Demon, Fitch and Olympic.

Without compound lights, the night was black, very black. After Germany, Shark wasn't surprised by the kind of darkness you only got when you were far enough away from city lights. When you were out on patrol in a rural area the absence of light was at first eerie and unsettling. Sounds seemed sharper and more clear forcing a nervous hyper awareness. People said when you lose one of your senses your others grow stronger. Shark didn't believe that. It wasn't that they grew stronger, you just paid more attention. In a normal situation you heard ten or more noises in a single second. Shark had counted. Your head dismissed most of those as unimportant unless you focused on them. Sitting in class people were breathing, moving, the air conditioning was blowing, a bird was singing outside the window, your pen was scratching on the paper in front of you, your stomach was gurgling, saliva was squelching around in your mouth. Everywhere. Everything had a sound.

So when you were in the dark, your head, not your ears, paid attention to all the sounds your ears already heard. And Shark didn't hear anything he wasn't expecting to hear.

"Hey Wanker, let me get some hole." He said.

"Now?" Wanker replied in a calm, ordinary tone.

"Yeah. We're good for a few minutes. Won't take me long. It's been a week, bro." he answered.

Wanker moved to pull the lower layers of his uniform down just over his ass after releasing his belt. "Do your thing, dude." Wanker said getting on his hands and knees.

Shark moved up behind him, his hard dick already freed. Neither of them exposed anything more than was necessary, as usual. Wanker's obedient acceptance of being dicked sending a surge of pleasure straight to his pole. Just snap his fingers and he had a hole to fuck anytime he wanted it. It was even better that Wanker didn't get eager about it, never asked him for a fuck. There was something thrilling about having someone so obedient who had no expectations, who wouldn't turn it into something it wasn't. It was clear Wanker attached no significance to the act. He didn't even feel bad about being used. That was what did it for the brothers. If Wanker had turned into a little bitch, or some flaming faggot (sorry Zeus) the Bravos wouldn't have stood for it. As long as this stayed in the realm of a sexual handshake, no one was going to put a stop to it or complain. Because Wanker hadn't changed. He was still Wanker.

"Wait." Wanker said before spitting in his hand and reaching back to grease his asshole with spit. "One sec...". He spit again, and reached back to slick up Shark's shaft.

"Thanks." Shark said. He kept forgetting that part.

He eased forward into Wanker's tight hole. The heated furnace of his brother's ass was a welcome feeling in the cold night air. He chuckled at the thought that there was a time he would have found a thought like that gross.

It wasn't even like he was having sex with Wanker. It was just getting off, releasing some tension. Neither one of them had any kind of feelings that got in the way. Wanker had a hole and he didn't get warped about what happened to it. Any way, any position, any action - slow or fast, hard or gentle - Wanker just kept his hole in position so a brother who needed it could fuck out a little aggression, boredom, pent up frustration or just get rid of that distracting buildup that all men had to deal with from their nuts.

Shark hadn't had much pussy, only one girl in fact had ignored his unfortunate face and mouth and let him get rid of both their cherries. For her, it was just a matter of needing the credential with her girlfriends after they heard that your period wasn't as bad if you weren't a virgin. That's the crazy shit girls did. Most of them were insane.

He knew she'd only picked him because he wasn't going to say no, not the way he looked, and she could firmly set expectations. She didn't have to do all the manipulation, the luring, the subtle hints and flirting she'd have to do with most other guys. He was less work for something she saw as a medical procedure. And they used a condom. And she complained about how uncomfortable it was. And she bossed him around about how he was doing it. Losing his virginity: two out of ten stars. Pussy? Eight out of ten stars. Women? Five out of ten. Based on his single experience. But hey, you had to have a benchmark, right?

So when he slid raw into the sloppy hole Footlong had left behind in that winter shelter in Germany, he was jolted into an appreciation of Wanker's ass as a welcome release, and Wanker in general as a receptive fuck. He would never have even considered it if Footlong hadn't fucked Wanker first. Knowing a buddy had taken the first leap helped him bridge the off limits feeling that he would have had. Ass wasn't all that different from pussy. And he gained an appreciation for all the things that actually mattered in fucking someone, and just sticking your dick in a hole was really the least of it.

Since then, he'd fucked Wanker every chance he got, which wasn't all that much since there wasn't too many places they could do it when at Airborne. And he decided that aside from the tight, warm, gripping wetness of Wanker's hole, his favorite part was how Wanker never blinked when he asked.

A few of the other brothers were getting theirs too, it wasn't a secret, not in the brotherhood. Wanker was a resource and by silent agreement (and Assmunch, Sleeper and Zeus's warning) they kept it respectful and emotionally dry. The world would be a much different place if men could have this sort of arrangement with women. It didn't always have to be about love and feelings.

As he pumped away, Dumbo kept watch in the night. Wanker had a nice cushioning butt for throwing a fuck, which was good for Shark. His hipbones stuck out a little because he was on the thin side. So he could appreciate not banging bones during what was supposed to be a feel good experience.

He gripped Wanker's hips and with every thrust forward he pulled back, bucking up inside his buddy's hole. Wanker was a real trooper, not even grunting in discomfort. That was the third thing in favor of fucking Wanker, he never complained, he just took the fuck like a good slut. After a couple minutes Shark could feel himself getting close.

"Fuck yeah, I'm gonna nut, bro." He whispered.

"Sweet. Juice that hole, buddy." Wanker whispered back, a little out of breath.

Number four on the list - you could dump your load right in his ass, or his mouth, he didn't care. From what Shark gathered, hardly anyone got to cum inside anyone they had sex with these days. Even couples that had been together a while still used condoms all the time. It seemed like only married people didn't.

He let out a low moan as his cum flooded Wanker's guts in several long spurts balls deep. It took him about 30 seconds to come down from the high. He would never hate that feeling. He pulled out and put his dick away.

"You done?" Dumbo asked.

"Yeah, you need a go?" Shark replied.

Dumbo moved closer and pulled his dick out. "Just a blowjob."

"You good, bro?" He asked Wanker with a pat on the shoulder.

"A-1, bro." Wanker replied.

Shark went over to the post Dumbo had just left to take his turn at watch. Wanker went to work on Dumbo's average dick while Dumbo used both hands to guide his head for the type of mouth fucking he needed. Shark shook his head as the usual disappointment flooded him after seeing Dumbo's low hangers swing with every hip thrust into Wanker's patient lips. Like his ears, Dumbo's nuts were legendary. Shark would give anything to have balls like Dumbo's, nuts that actually swung, the size of plums instead of his own walnuts drawn up in a tight sack. At least the Gods were fair and gave Dumbo an unremarkable dick. Maybe not real fair, he still had to walk around with those ears. He sighed and kept eyes and ears peeled out into the darkness, wondering how the assault was proceeding. The frequent wet gurgle behind him told him the assault on Wanker's throat was going as expected. Wanker did suck a mean dick.

MARINES POTTER AND BATTLES

"Well ain't that somethin'". Lance Corporal Potter drawled, watching through his night vision optics as the Bravo they called Dumbo stiffened up with an orgasm right into Wanker's mouth. It was uncontrolled and slightly violent, yet Wanker allowed himself to be manhandled and violated as Dumbo thrust and quivered with spastic jerks. Quiet as a mouse though. The Bravos were approximately 30 feet away, and Potter only had a partial profile of the sexual act.

"Yeah, sure is." Battles answered, watching the action himself. The one called Shark had done his deed just before. At least they had the sense to have a watch. "Dude didn't even spit it out." He continued after everyone pulled themselves together and resumed guard in crouched positions.

Potter grunted. "Let's move. This team's holding a retreat position, they're not going anywhere. We'll go west."

They moved off into the darkness. Major Collins wanted a thorough report on tonight's attack drill from initial engagement to the cease of hostilities. Potter knew he and Battles couldn't be everywhere at once and specific fights or activities weren't what the Major was looking for. This was a test for the two junior Marines, to see how much information they could gather without being discovered. To determine if they could organize the information and relay it both in a way suitable for a senior officer's digestion and relevant to the operation of a Marine of Potter's rank. A test to see if they could properly identify elements of the assault in terms of strengths and weaknesses. Who was sticking their dick in who wasn't battlefield intel. And if you don't want a reputation in the military, you don't offer information that your superior hasn't asked for. In any circumstance. It was called information compartmentalization.

Your LT doesn't care how dirty the latrine is, or that maintenance won't fix the shower drain. That information is properly given to your Staff Sergeant. Don't tell your Colonel the armory issued you an M16 with a cracked stock. And don't spread gossip up the chain, or within the ranks, ever. Within your unit, that's unofficially acceptable depending on the nature of the gossip but It's still discouraged. Now, go outside your unit and the one hard rule is `answer only when asked' but you still need to demonstrate discretion.

In Iraq, or during any deployment really, secrets are hard to keep. You know who's cheating on their wife or girlfriend. You know who the Barrack's Bunnies are on post. You know who got chewed out for a fuckup. And most of the guys know who'll `do a favor' for another Marine. Potter and Battles decided early on they didn't want their business known and kept their own arrangement close. That was another reputation you didn't want if you expected to go anywhere in the Corps.

Wanker's status as the Bravo's joy-hole didn't fall within their orders, so unless the Major asked it wasn't pertinent to the mission. Potter gave it no further thought.

An hour later they made their way back to the camp Major Collins had them create earlier that day about a mile from the compound. It wasn't easy in the dark woods, another test. He and Battles could have used their optics but they didn't need them and conserving the battery was an important part of maintaining the operational effectiveness of your gear in case you needed it for something critical.

They found Major Collins sitting back against a pack, reading a book with a penlight.

"Sir." Potter said, walking up.

"Corporal. Private. Eat first." Major Collins gestured with the penlight at two aluminum foil wrapped bundles just a few feet away.

He and Battles threw themselves on the ground with grateful moans. "Thank you Sir." Battles said.

The only light was from the Major's penlight. Honestly, they'd adjusted to the dark and would rather not have the light at all. The Major's use of the light signaled their camp was safe and normal camp protocol was allowed. They opened the foil to the rich smell of a hearty stew.

"Fuck, that smells good." Potter said before he could stop himself. "Apologies, Sir. Won't happen again." He said immediately.

Collins clicked off his pen light. "Relax Marine. We're not in ranks. casual communication permitted. In fact, when we're alone, I expect it from you two. I'm just another Marine, Potter."

"Yes, Sir. I mean Major. Yes Major." Potter said.

"Now eat." Major Collins said.

Man, the stew was good. Something about a warm meal after a full day's exertion.

"Wow, what kind of meat is this? So good." Battles said around a mouthful.

"Deer meat, I think. I could eat five bowls of this." Potter said around his own mouthful.

Potter tried to eat like a civilized human. There was a Major in their presence, after all. The Major had taken care of them, providing healthy Marine sized portions of the deep, savory, thick stew filled with onions, potatoes, big chunks of meat, and a few other vegetables. It was salty with a hefty amount of spice and heat. It didn't take long to finish when you were trained to eat fast in the field. Battles policed the containers and remnants while Potter gathered natural materials from around the camp so he could create a mock compound to give his report. The night air was dry and chilly, somewhere in the upper 30's or low 40's and it felt good. After boot camp in Southern California, he'd had a rude shock in Iraq after thinking that being in a Middle East country was going to be hot. It was, during the height of the day and all throughout the summer.

But otherwise it cooled down drastically at night. This temperate Georgia winter reminded him a lot of winter in northern Iraq where it was rare for the temperature to fall below freezing, but it still got close. Dawn and sunrise on a crisp, clear northern Iraqi morning was damn near beautiful, as much as the country and government itself sucked. It was on those mornings that Potter felt like Iraq wasn't all that different from America. Farmers got up and tended to their animals, the day promised only good things, the distant hills blurred and greyed with a morning haze. Sharing a dallah of Qahwa (Arab coffee) with the indigenous Kurds who were effusively friendly. The Kurds weren't their enemy in the conflict. The US actually considered them allies against Hussein, but the military didn't really ask permission for a lot of things they had to do, so people occasionally got butthurt. Compensation was given. And part of the Arabic culture was to ask for 20 camels when you only deserved 2. The art of negotiation was considered a fun challenge in their culture. And serious negotiations were prolonged and often involved sharing Qahwa. It had the feel of being almost ceremonial.

As far as getting maximum concessions was concerned during the process, it wasn't dishonest he eventually learned, to demand more than you were owed. It was expected to demand more. No one in the Iraqi or Kurdish culture would take a claim for 20 camels seriously and an opponent was expected to counter with an equally absurd low ball offer.

It was probably racist to use camels, he corrected himself. Kurds raised goats and sheep. Camels were for Bedouin, the nomadic wanderers who wanted little to do with anyone.

Now, anytime he thought about Iraq, it wasn't the lopsided constantly moving fight across the country as Saddam's forces were in continuous retreat from the superior force of the coalition armies comprised of the U.S., Britain, France, Germany, the Soviet Union, Japan, and even Saudi Arabia and Egypt. He didn't think about that much, and instead thought about how good it felt to actually help the Kurds, the families he'd met, how coffee wasn't just something you gulped down to give you a jolt, it was meant to be enjoyed.

Potter appreciated his time with Operation Provide Comfort in Northern Iraq after they'd taken care of kicking the living shit out of Saddam Hussein's sad little army. He'd learned a lot, but mostly he UNlearned American prejudices. People were people, and most regular people were only concerned with surviving day to day. And just like in America, city people were far more caught up in political bullshit than the simpler population in the countryside. The Kurds only wanted their homeland back after Saddam Hussein's brutality against them. It was disheartening to see how little the Kurds possessed, how much they had given up to flee, and their generosity in the face of their destitute existence contrasted with the relative wealth of American soldiers spoke volumes about who they were as a people.

Trying to give them gifts to ease their poverty only resulted in an argument over some trinket or item they tried to force in trade so that the transaction wouldn't be one sided. Often it was items they could not afford to give up, having so little to begin with. Part of it was pride. Potter learned that if you offered the gift as compensation for something they had done or would do, it allowed them to accept it, as long as it wasn't too valuable. Money was not acceptable, except for merchants or businessmen. Food that had been prepared was also not acceptable. Raw goods or useful items were received well, if they were in payment for a service such as information or help. Small trinkets of no real value were highly coveted by the children, if the items were uniquely American.

It could be confusing how they tried to milk you for everything you owned if they were negotiating for something they wanted or needed, but try to give them something for free and they would never take it and suddenly you found yourself in some weird reverse negotiation of trying to get them to give you LESS while they argued that it wasn't right that you gave them anything, and if you did it was too much.

Alternatively, battle maps made him think of his time driving back the Iraqis before he ever saw the gentler side of the people of Iraq. his miniature compound he was currently arranging for Major Collins' briefing brought back memories of field planning from his early days of the Gulf War, his unit gathered around some cobbled together basic layout of their objective on the ground while they watched their Lieutenant describe the battle plan using sticks, rocks, or utility items from their gear. Scale was important in battle maps. Accuracy of position was important. Critical elements needed to be represented if they measured any weight on the battle. Major players had to be identified. Private Battles watched with riveted attention as he arranged the map, and he could feel the Major's heavy consideration of his every placement. He wasn't nervous, even if Major Collins came down from Heaven, the Pentagon. Potter knew his shit, he wasn't worried about that. And Major Collins was refreshingly easy going for an officer. Potter knew that came from confidence and having nothing to prove. It was something Potter tried to emulate, having seen it before in other leaders. There was a time and place for being a hard ass, but if you used it sparingly it carried more weight.

Leadership was tricky like that. It was one of the reasons he both liked and respected Assmunch. They weren't so far apart in rank Potter felt awkward calling him by his Platoon nickname even if he didn't quite understand why they called him that. No, Assmunch was one of those rare soldiers who even as a junior enlisted possessed this self awareness, confidence, and ease of command that felt like he was senior. He didn't act like a Private. He didn't carry his lowly stripe like the others. Just like Collins didn't carry his Major like other Majors that Potter had encountered. It was quality. Potter didn't think that could be taught, but when he found someone with it he made sure he was all eyes and ears. As the lowliest NCO he didn't deserve or merit the personal attention of someone like Major Collins. Yet, here he was and he was damned if he wouldn't give the man his best.

"The Bravos separated into mostly 3 man units and spread out in an encirclement of the compound, forcing the Charlies to divide their defense. The Bravos were far more capable of acting independently without direct command than the Charlies. That will become clear just after contact..."Potter began his debriefing