Sarge reached for his pants before the watch changed and closed his hand around the stock of his rifle. He had to work his way down to the foot of the bedroll one-handed before he found his pants. The blanket had got itself twisted around his hips, his right hand was sticky, and the shirt hanging from the curtain rail was damp. He checked the roof. The strip of concrete directly above his bed was bone dry.
Sleeping in barracks had taught him to wait for a neighbor to roll over before gathering up wet sheets. This morning he could have done without remembering whose face he'd seen. An old soldier was entitled to wash his hands and change his drawers without putting the matter to a vote. He was contemplating just how quickly he could get from here to the water bucket when he heard Marx sniff from the next bed.
"Do you suppose there's any chance a bottle of something fell over and soaked the whole bloody floor?" the panther asked, in a hopeful whisper.
