“Listen, you barking toddlers,” growls the grizzled commandant, six feet of white-haired slabrock, “I’m here to beat your ragtag band into shape and I will not spare the whip hand! There’s only one thing I need to know.” He draws himself up and sets his jaw. “Who are they shipping me with?”

The mismatched platooners trade glances. “Well,” says the serious boy, “we’re all shipping out tomorrow—”

“Them! The—the people out there!” The commandant flaps a hand sideways. “Which one of you! Do they want me to kiss!”

The jokester feels the camera draw in on him, and gulps.