Sergeant Werner remained silent and a little relieved.  The captain continued:

“However, I’ll have to amend your report a bit.”

Now the Sergeant was confused, and once-again frightened.

“Here’s how it will go,” said the captain. “Lieutenant Lyons charged the Apaches single-handed in an attempt to draw their fire and killed their chief, which allowed the rest of the command to swoop in and destroy the enemy, avenging the massacre at Firewater Ford. He bravely sacrificed himself for the good of his men. Do you follow, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Werner nodded automatically in agreement.

Captain Murphy laughed to himself and sat down on the desk, arms crossed, still grinning. “Who knows. The little bastard might even get a medal for this. Jesus, I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens.”

Sergeant Werner remained silent, his face impassive, hiding his confusion.

“You know the truth about his old man” the captain continued in a lighthearted manner. “He was a banker before the war. For Christ’s sake, a banker! And the only reason he captured that Reb flag at Gettysburg is because he found it underneath a dead man after the battle. Everyone in the army knows it. But trust me. It’ll be better for all of us if James Lyons’s son dies a hero. Dismissed, Sergeant.”

Leaving headquarters, Sergeant Werner trudged slowly across the dusty parade ground to the barracks.  On the one hand, he felt relieved there would be no charges against him.  On the other hand, he felt even guiltier about what he’d done.  He also doubted that the Captain’s feelings were in any way similar.

Outside the sutler’s store, he found Mr. Devon leaning against a hitching post, contentedly chewing on a piece of deer jerky.  He greeted the sergeant like an old comrade-in-arms.

“Sarge,” he said. “I want you tuh know there ain’t no hard feelings on this end. Whata you say we go inta town tugether? I’ll treat you tuh dinner, maybe a few shots. Hell, maybe even a whore. I know this Mexican girl you’ll just love. How ‘bout—”

Sergeant Werner’s punch sent the slob tumbling backwards over the hitching post.  Without a word, he made his way to the barracks.  Christ, he thought to himself.  Really need to wash off some of this dust.  

There was however one thought that gave him some comfort: He was sure he would never make a good officer.