Chapter 6: Civilization

Harry was woken not by his trusty alarm clock, but by cries of alarm coming from somewhere outside the officers' quarters.

Razor Sharpe sat up in his bunk. "What time is it?" he demanded sleepily.

Harry consulted his watch as he stood up. "Just past three in the morning."

"Oh," Razor replied noncommittally. "I wonder what Whitefeather's doing this time."

"It can't top last night's entertainment," Harry replied. As he reached for his housecoat, he added, "Might as well see what all the excitement's about this time."

As the two pilots joined their fellow aircrew on the front lawn of their barracks, several forms came running down the road from the general direction of the RCAF Regiment's junior ranks' barracks. "Gas, gas gas!" several of the forms were shouting.

"'Gas?'" Razor echoed wonderingly. "Say, do we even have any gas masks on the base?"

"Probably," Harry responded calmly as the terrified infantrymen ran past to vanish into the gloom. "Quartermaster's Stores seem to have anything else you could ask for. Except women."

"I wouldn't put it past them to have a few dames stashed away, too," Bookie Teperman contributed as he emerged from the shadows behind them. "Unless I miss my guess, here comes the gas canister."

Harry looked at the striped skunk waddling down the road, in the general direction of the rapidly retreating RCAF Regiment infantrymen. "Maybe it's not Captain Whitefeather providing tonight's amusements," he reflected.

Bookie calmly and gently approached the small mammal, which submitted happily to being picked up.

"Careful, Bookie, you don't want to be sleeping on the runway the rest of the night!" someone called.

Harry's concern was more practical. "Are you sure it's not rabid?"

Bookie checked the pet ID tags dangling from the skunk's collar. "It says here that his shots are up to date."

"Shots? It's a pet?" Harry asked. His eyebrows rose fast as he realized the RCAF Regiment privates were likely running from an unarmed opponent.

"Yep. My first clue: does anyone smell skunk? Even if they haven't fired off, wild ones still have a bit of a musky smell, which this one lacks. The second clue that it's a domestic is the little red tag hanging from its collar. This one, therefore, has had the scent glands removed, as required of all pet skunks by the Canadian Food Inspection Agency."

Digger nodded. "Obvious when explained. Thanks, Sherlock."

Bookie nodded as he continued to caress the head of the cute little bundle of black and white fur. "It was ... elementary."

The crowd gave a collective groan.

Another form, dressed in a tartan-pattern housecoat, joined the knot of airmen still nervously watching Bookie and his diminutive companion. "Spot!" the newcomer cried. Harry thought he recognized the man as one of the Officers' Mess cooks. "How did you get out? You naughty thing."

"'Spot'?" Harry was surprised yet again, but then nodded in comprehension. "I get it. Calling a striped skunk 'Spot'. Cute." He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

The cook relieved Bookie of his burden. "I'll take him back to his cage, if I may, Sir, and see to it he's securely locked up."

Captain Whitefeather chose that moment to stride down the road, heading in the direction of the RCAF Regiment barracks. Unlike everyone else, the lanky Mohawk was dressed in his customary CADPAT Temperate Woodland combat uniform with an Airborne maroon beret. As he passed by the officers' quarters, he gave Spot a friendly scratch and a slice of apple he just "happened" to have on him.

A fantastically dressed infantryman raced up to Whitefeather out of the darkness. He was wearing an untied pair of combat boots that had obviously been hastily donned, a pair of white undershorts, and a C4 gas mask. "Sir," the man reported, his voice muffled by the gas mask, "I beg to report there's a skunk in the Regimental barracks!"

"Would it be that skunk?" Whitefeather enquired pleasantly, pointing to the tame creature in the cook's arms, happily devouring the apple slice.

The man took in the amused faces around the cook, and the white-striped furry menace to society innocently masticating in front of him. He ripped off his gas mask to reveal the face of Private Charles Boucherville. He tried unsuccessfully to straighten his badly-tousled hair. "Ah, Sir, it wouldn't astonish me in the slightest."

As the officers around him chuckled, Whitefeather continued his mild interrogation. "Do you know what the purpose of tonight's exercise was?"

"Sir, yes, Sir. Stay calm."

"Actually, it was to teach the importance of situational awareness. If anyone had looked closely, or even used their nose, they would have realized it was a pet skunk and not a wild one, and therefore likely the station mascot. When protecting a base, it's important to know when and where the threats are really coming from."

The snickering flyboys made their way back to their bunks, to resume their interrupted rest.

Most of the officers present for breakfast were still chuckling over the "gas attack" on the Regiment's barracks the night before. Lieutenant Solway was not feeling anything like jovial. Instead, he regarded the contents of his tray with bemusement. He made his way over to the table that he and Whitefeather customarily shared. Being infantry rather than flight crew, even if Solway was technically Air Force, the two usually ate by themselves.

Whitefeather was already seated and consuming easy-over eggs and sausages as he perused his ever-present notebook. He couldn't miss the breakfast that Solway plunked across from him.

"Good morning, Leftenant," Whitefeather greeted him. "Ah, that's a rather ... interesting breakfast. Is that what I think it is?"

Solway grimly consulted the scrap of paper he'd scribbled the breakfast order on, and pointed to the items on his plate. "Steamed lobster with charmoula butter. Garlic mashed potatoes with corn. Sautéed sugar snap peas." He sighed. "I deliberately chose dishes that the kitchen wouldn't have prepped for breakfast. Got this from a popular gourmet website late last night." He sighed. "They definitely have a food replicator back there."

"Oh? What was their reaction to this order?"

"And I quote, 'Just a second, Leftenant.' They didn't even lift an eyebrow." He speared some succulent lobster on the tines of his speciality fork. "Didn't take them any more time than anybody else's order, either." He dipped the forkful of flesh into the charmoula butter and transferred the load into his mouth.