The Fobbit

Staff/Sgt Hooms missed badly.

Mother FUCK! He swore loud enough that we heard him in the mess fifty meters away. He slapped his holster as though about to shoot the offending golf disc, then swaggered out to retrieve it and try again, shaking his head with exaggerated disgust.

This, like everything he did, was a performance. He wanted all of us to see that, despite his lack of combat experience, he was a salty old veteran.

I’d seen his type before. Career NCOs yearning for a combat star. They strutted around the FOB like John Wayne, armed to the teeth.

Friday Fictioneers


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