by Joyce Frohn



I always hated them Army boots, especially in boot camp. All them officers teaching stuff. How to tie shoes. I learned that in kindergarten. How to polish my boots. Hated that. Officer's boots looked too clean. Especially the Captain's.

We all hated him for still sending us on patrol, at Christmas time, yet. We were all sure the war would be over in a few weeks, months at the most.

Then it happened. The old man had been right. The war wasn't over. Seemed like snow and bullets all mixed together.

After it was over, I had to clean him up, fix his boots and stuff. I couldn't let them put him in the sack looking like that. He'd a seen anybody in our unit with their boots all crooked like that, he'd a yelled at them so loud, Hitler woulda freaked.

I wasn't going to let anyone see him like that, not with one boot pointing up and one down.



Joyce Frohn is married with a ten-year-old daughter. She has been a professional writer since graduated from college with a biology degree. She has been published in ClarkesWorld, Penumbra and Midnight Echo among many others. She would like to thank her imaginary friends for sticking around while she learned to write. 



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