V. The Hierophant. [Reversed]

On The Front Lines—EVENING

The Sailor and I sit in the Officer’s Club while the Bartender explains to us why we should be so damned excited to fight and die in this particularly bloody campaign. I am not as enamored with the General as he or the Sailor is. A generational thing I suppose. The Bartender tries and tries to win me over. Haven’t I seen the movie?

“Remember how great a Commanding Officer he was portrayed as?” the Bartender explains the character to man to me. “He was shown to be such an inspiration to everyone.” He shows me an old still which was tacked up behind the bar. I look at the old black and white photo and I think I do remember.

I harrumph into my beer as I take a sip. “Propaganda.”

“Well exactly.” The Bartender spins the story back around, “He was nothing like that movie. A real down to earth type.”

I harrumph again.

Though the bar is crowded and loud, the dance floor is empty. It is unusual for the Officer’s Club, where male and female personnel and the occasional local woman of the night are usually pawing each other on the floor. Trying to grasp the last motes of pleasure before being atomized to bits on the battlefield.

The problem is a camera crew shooting something in concert with the General’s arrival. More propaganda, of course. And the director is encouraging some men are supposed to get up and dance and egg on the women, mostly nurses. Show the folks at home what a blast we are having.

I harrumph again and the Sailor says, “Oh, what the hell” and joins the guys on the floor. He’s had enough of my gloominess for now. I want no part of the embarrassment, and so I head to find another place to hang as far as I can get from the cameras. With some difficulty I push through the crowd room. I find a single open seat at a small table near the back. The empty chair is next to an extremely attractive woman but she is most certainly here with some stud of a captain or a lieutenant. Or is one of the better looking prostitutes in the camp. As I look for a waitress to take an order, the woman leans close, hiking her sexy skimpy dress.

“What are you drinking?” she coos. I reach and flag the passing Bartender, while answering her “Almost anything.”

“You’re funny.” She sneers and reaches down. Despite my baggy green Class B pants she is able to grab and stroke enough of my penis and to get me excited. Of course I am so lonely that I am instantly hanging on the verge of climax, but she hasn’t enough breathing room to quite get me there.

That is not that her goal anyway. I haven’t paid. Yet.