Though Brandy made sure her face was set in an expression of grim annoyance as the company gathered, inwardly she was more than a little elated. It was clear to her that today’s performance more than justified her low opinion that Phule had tried to dismiss as cynicism. If anything, she was looking forward to hearing him enumerate the shortcomings of the rabble he had been defending so staunchly.
“I don’t have to tell you that was a pretty miserable showing,” the CO announced as the last few stragglers joined the group. “I’m just wondering if anyone has the smarts or the courage to tell me what’s wrong.”
“We stink on ice!”
It was the now obligatory voice from the back of the crowd that was raised, though everyone seemed to be in agreement with it. Phule, it seemed, was not about to let it go at that, however.
“Who said that?” he demanded, peering in the direction the voice had come from.
Before his gaze, the mass of Legionnaires melted away, leaving one dark-haired, rat-faced individual to meet the challenge alone.
“I guess I did … sir,” he admitted uncomfortably.
“It’s Do-Wop, isn’t it?” the commander said, recognizing the Legionnaire who had done communications a few days before.
“Yes, sir!”
“Actually it’s De Wop,” someone whispered loudly, and a snicker rippled through the assemblage as the singled-out party flushed with annoyance and embarrassment.
Phule ignored it all.
“Well, Do-Wop, I admire someone who speaks their mind … but you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
The company frowned in bewilderment, except the first sergeant, who scowled openly as he continued.