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unscratchedfoot
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Love me tender. Love me sweet.
May 2002
time: 14:28
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In the Field
"It is an integral part of a commander's duty to provide company to the young wives of officers out in the field. Of course it up the commander to pick and choose whom he wishes to fraternize with." - A quote from the chapter on the home front from Military Master.
General Samsonov barrelled into the dusty decrepid living room. Feared as much for his appearance as his iron discipline, he made a fearsome impression. A head like a block of rock, decorated with a crewcut and a billowing beard going down to his massive chest, sat neckless on top of a beefy body a bear would be proud of. His Russian general's uniform was dark grey/blue, gold buttoned, with rectangular red patches on each collar lapel, and was distinctly lacking the multi-colored bars showing off rank. Samsonov left no room for further inquiry when questioned about his lack of decor: "A war is for fighting, not for dressing up like a bunch of faggots! Now f*ck off out of my face!"
Colonel Brusilov came in with an armload of thick wood frames supporting paintings in water color. Being far inferior to Samsonov in both rank and physique, the nervous Brusilov jumped at any opportunity to try and please his superior. He was rarely, if ever, successful in this endeavour. "Shall I put these up where I think is best or would you like..."
"Clean the place first. This pigsty is more filty than my underwear after a couple of weeks in the field." growled Samsonov. "Ack, what the hell? Just put them up. They inspire me."
While Brusilov went about hammering nails into the walls and fitting the frames onto them, a young woman, dressed more suitably for a ball than a visit to an army headquarters, came strolling in. "Sammy you must be joking. Do you really think I'm gonna stay here? My clothes are gonna get dirty!" A dusty cloud billowed up when Brusilov hammered home another nail. Serene was a German girl, part of Samsonov's conquest 'booty'. She didn't know if Samsonov was married or not but she did know one thing: she was his field mistress.
"Useless woman! If you knew how to do anything other than whine all day long, you'd be helping to fix the place up. Get out of here before I have enough time to teach you some manners!" roared Sammy.
Serene didn't look serene at all as she stormed out with a pouty look verging on crying, her glamorous dress waving in the dusty air.
Having finished putting up the first painting, Brusilov stepped back to admire it. "My, that is one fine piece of art."
"Damn straight it is." The creator of the art was none other than Samsonov himself. Although everyone who saw it said the opposite, they all privately knew that it looked more like a dog's dinner after being tossed. But Samsonov considered his work to be at least the equal of any masterful painter in history.
Brusilov saw a chance to brown-nose a little. "Women can be so selfish can't they? And what a shame considering her master is true master of both art and warfare."
Samsonov nodded while staring at the painting. "Warfare is an art just like painting. I mix platoons of tanks, troops and artillery to deliver a masterful stroke of hellish destruction and subjugation. A general who cannot paint is no general at all. Artistic ability is testament to a man's creativity and genius. That's why I instituted art classes in all officer corriculums."
Brusilov put his arm around Sammy's shoulders and a smile spread over his weak face, lifing up the tips of his bushy black mustache. "You are indeed a true master."
"Brusilov, go stand in line." Samsonov walked up close to his painting, leaving the stunned Brusilov standing there with his arm held up in the air just as it had been on Samsonov's shoulders a moment before.
"Huh? You... want... me.. to... go... stand where?"
Samsonov was not one to have his orders questioned. He spun around, took 2 steps towards Brusilov and slugged him in the gut with such brutal force that he was sure his fist touched spine. "You know which line I'm talking about. No one, and I mean no one, touches me without my explicit verbal permission."
Brusilov crumpled to the floor, his face turning a reddish purple as his lungs simultaneously struggled for and rejected any admission of air whatsoever. But raw fear alone ensured that he made it to 'the line' in due time.
The touchy general went to work finishing hanging up the paintings, filling the air with more and more dust each hammerstroke. I never did like that weak-minded fool.
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The next package of goods is kinduv done but still have to put labels on it and what not.
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30-09-2003 05:53
I am starting to miss the laughs I always get from another installment of your stories. We be needin' a fix. 
good stuff Scratchy but when are we gonna see that old dog Corny get his comeupence 
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