The Non-Commissioned Baby. Maureen Child

wasn’t my friend,” Jeff interrupted. “He was my sergeant.”

      In the dim light, he saw her shake her head in confusion. Suddenly unable to sit still, he got up, walked to the nearest window and yanked on a nylon cord. The window blinds flew up with a loud clatter. When they were secured, Jeff set his wineglass down on the windowsill, leaned both palms on either side of it and stared through the glass at the town outside.

      Bright splashes of neon decorated the night. Shimmers of primary colors reflected off the night sky. Convenience stores, gas stations, even the theater down the street added to the blazing clutter.

      He stared at civilization’s landmarks until they faded into a kaleidoscopic blur of light and color. Slowly, his mind replaced the familiar view with one he’d spent years trying to forget.

      A sun-washed desert rose up in his memory. Men and machinery moving across endless miles of sand and heat under a sky so wide and empty it glittered in the noonday sun like a stainless steel skillet.

      Hank Powell, a grizzled, tough, no-nonsense first sergeant, had had the guts to look a fresh, young, know-it-all lieutenant in the face and tell him he was wrong.