I was sitting at attention and reading “A Message to Garcia” in the front seat of my desert tan 2022 Ford F-150 XLT when a call came in. I turned down the Army Song playing on the radio. It was the Command Sergeant Major.

“Bad news, First Sergeant. We got a situation.”

“What? Is the Commander trying to authorize fleece jackets again?”

“Worse. Somebody just failed to stand at attention during retreat while indoors”

The wad of Skoal practically fell out of my mouth. “What kind of shitbag would do something like that? Flag honors are the ultimate responsibility: honorable, timeless, selfless. They represent true American freedom, not subject to arbitrary modifications by any Commander. Do we have any leads?”

“Not yet. But mark my words: we’re going to figure out who it was and we’re going to smoke the shit out of them… provided were within our rights under the regulations to do so.”

“Easy, Sergeant Major,” I said. “Any action under what the regulations offer is, by definition, correct.”

He laughed. “That’s why you’re the best I got, First Sergeant. Now you get out there and find that oxygen thief”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m on it.”

I conduct PMCS my truck, ensuring that I remove the chock block and drip pan. Ten minutes later, I was on the scene. It was a normal Company HQ, strangled on all sides by grass. I hopped over it and went inside.

“Anyone gonna call "At Ease"?” I said, flashing my diamond and my jump wings and a small picture of SMA(R) Chandler. “Stand at Parade Rest!” They didn’t.

“Now, which one of you punks is going to confess to this infraction?” No one spoke up.

“Come on,” I said. “Don’t you all understand that the integrity of the profession of arms is at stake?”

It didn’t seem like they did.

“Seriously, Soldiers. Without someone taking responsibility, I’m just going to stand here and waste your time. Paperwork is fine, but I prefer being paid in push ups or flutter kicks.”

Nothing. These people were stonewalling me. It almost seemed like they didn’t care that the backbone of the Army had scoliosis.

I figured I could wait them out. I lit several cigarettes outside, smoking indoors would get me hemmed up. Just then, a POG with a beard made a break for it.

“Half-Right Face” I yelled.

Too late. He was already out the front door. I went after him.

“Stop right there!” I yelled as I ran. He was faster than me because I always try to avoid stepping on Sergeant Major's grass. Our country needs concertina wire around all grass, but, thanks to the incestuous interplay between our corrupt federal government and the Inspector General, it will never happen.

I was losing him. “Listen, First Sergeant isn't mad!” I yelled. “What would you consider an appropriate corrective action for your infraction? We can sit down and discuss it over a DA 4856!”

He turned, his hand shaped like a knife that the regulations forbade him to use. He pointed it at me and missed. I pulled my own knife-hand and pointed back. The authority lodged in a Second Lieutenant less than a foot from him. I knife-handed the LT again, on purpose.

“All right, all right!” the man yelled, snapping to parade rest. “I give up, First Sergeant! I confess: I ignored the flag.”

“Why’d you do it?” I asked, as I took down the leg's first line's information.

“Because I was afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid of an Army free from the concept basic human rights” he said. “I have a shaving profile.”

I wanted to haze the guy. Years ago, a soldier on profile got my battle buddy fired. Instead, I shook my head.

“Let this be a message to all your no shave profilers out on in the ranks,” I said. “No matter how many regulations you break, you’ll never take away the dream of an perfectly disciplined and ready force.”

He nodded, because he knew I was right. Then he thanked me for my service for correcting him.